


these cows can get us home

by sarcangel



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Drinking, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Tattoos, street fighter ii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: Out on the back porch, the day’s lingering heat is laced with the cold edge of night. It’s not quite cool enough for a sweatshirt, but he wouldn’t mind one. With the sun fully down, it’s incredible how dark it is. The zombie apocalypse could start right here, shambling in from the shadows, and no one would ever know. The night is full of bug songs, mostly, and a bird or two, plus Zayn’s quiet rustling as he gets the joint sorted.The flare of the lighter is piercingly bright. He passes the lighter to Zayn, by the end, so their fingers don’t brush. Then he’s wrapped in the smell of weed, thick and sweet and scratchy, deja vu strong enough to drown in. He brings himself back to here and now with an effort.There’s the farm, sleeping and quiet.There’s his hand, wrapped around a cigarette.There’s Zayn’s voice, low in his ear, lazy accent like an ache in his heart.





	these cows can get us home

**Author's Note:**

> i owe more thanks than can possibly be expressed to both Alex and MJ.
> 
> Alex, i love you a lot. thanks for reading this when it was 75% more garbage-heapy than it is at present, when i was all over the board and couldn't envision a scenario in which i finished this and was ok with the final result. thank you! <3
> 
> MJ, you might scare me but i love you and it was exactly the ass-kicking i needed, i owe you big time and please cash in whenever necessary. thank you! <3
> 
> i'm still not sure if this ever needed to make it out into the world, but it was the hardest thing i've ever written and took a long time and it'll have to be good enough, for what it is.

“Zayn’s show is right around the corner,” Niall says, so out of the blue that Louis knows he’s been building up to it for at least ten minutes.

Wanker. “Is it?” Louis plays along, feigning ignorance. “Where’s he playing?”

“The Wiltern. As if you didn’t know that. You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

Louis winces, but he’s got nothing to say in his own defense.

“Anyway, you’re coming with. I emailed his team already. Got us on the list, can’t back out now.” Niall squints over at him from where he’s leaned on Louis’ deck railing, looking out on the back garden.

It’s sunny and warm, a perfect spring day. Early May’s not hot enough for the pool, though it probably will be soon. They’ve had enough burning to last a decade; it can hold off for a few weeks.

Louis lights a cigarette, stalling. “Who said I was backing out?” Can’t really back out if you didn’t have a choice to begin with.

Niall’s not fooled - all that hair dye didn’t end up frying his brain after all. Pity. “When’s the last time you talked?”

Louis rolls the smoke around in his mouth, takes his time exhaling while he pretends to think about it. “Beginning of my tour, I guess it was.”

“I mean talked, fucker, not texted.” Niall nudges him with his hip.

This close, Niall smells like beer and sun cream, a comforting blend. “Then...birthday, I think.”

“His, or yours?”

“His, don’t be an arse.” He throws a fist at Niall, aiming for his shoulder.

Niall evades his punch a bit too easily for his liking. “What the fuck, Louis?”

“You should have known it was coming, if you’re a real mind-reader.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “Should throw a better punch, if you expect it to land.”

Niall’s in a better place with Zayn, to tell the truth. It’s all right - Louis can’t be mad about it, but he can still run his finger over the raw spot, push down on it from time to time. See if it still hurts the same, if it’s got the same bitter edge. It’s less raw than it used to be, even a few months ago.

Niall goes home, not too long after. He’s got his tour to worry about, though the touring life suits Niall better than almost anyone Louis knows. What are the odds? That four of five of them would be touring their own albums at the same time? Liam’s always touring, seems like, though his approach has been a bit different - he’s smashing it, so who cares.

His own tour is exhausting. Exhilarating, too - but Louis is tired down to the smallest scrap of bone in his body. He’s on a short break, a little island in an endless stream of places, and he’s grateful for it. He lets himself back into the house, a cool oasis after the back garden’s bright heat. It’s safer that way, otherwise he’ll keep smoking until the entire pack is gone. And when he smokes, he drinks; and when he doesn’t drink, he thinks. Thinking’s not always ideal, when Zayn is the topic du jour.

In the kitchen, he pours himself a glass of water. The sound of the dispenser is loud in the quiet house, which seems extremely empty at the moment. He lets himself wallow in it for a minute, the solitude; a minute is all he generally allows. Any longer, and it takes too long to crawl back out again, and there are too many people that he can’t let down. Adding Zayn back to that list seems impossible, after the past few years. But there you have it.

Since he’s wallowing, anyway, he thinks about it, him and Zayn, turns his memories over like a jagged rock. The phone call last summer that jump-started their current phase: tentative friendship. Louis was just out of a radio show in New York - can’t even remember which, now, July was a blur of promo - when his phone rang. It was hot, he remembers that. He was stood on the pavement, the sun blistering his eyes after the relative dark of the studio.

And there it was, an unfamiliar number attached to a too-familiar name, a too-familiar kick in the chest. And yeah, he’d told Nialler it’d probably be alright, giving Zayn his new number. But Louis didn’t think he’d be calling so soon. He watched the screen, waiting for either blinding anger or good sense to kick in; something to rescue him. But nothing arrived, so - out of other fucking options, per usual - he answered the phone.

“This is Louis.” Louis was louder than he meant to be, picking up. It felt like enough, answering at all, didn’t need to give him more than that.

“It’s Zayn, bro.”

It surprised him, still, how three words - tentative, lazily drawled - could sound like a direct challenge. And apparently Louis wasn’t more mature yet, because he almost rang off right then.

He took a breath, soldiered on. “I know that.”

“Okay.” It was silent, then, for a long time. A minute, two minutes. Long enough to get under his skin and crawl back out again.

“What do you want? I assume you wanted something. By ringing, I mean.” Louis heard it himself, how strained he sounded; hated how Zayn could knot him up, with nothing - by breathing, stupid and loud, over a shitty cell connection in New York City.

“Do you think you would meet me?”

“What for?” He was tired, all of a sudden, in every possible way.

Zayn ignored him. “At my place, like. Here. And you can - I don’t know, punch me in the face, talk, whatever. Whatever you need.”

More silence. A lot can get packed into silence. It was never his strong suit, keeping his mouth shut, holding things in. Zayn was waiting for him on the other end, humming quietly into the phone just like he used to. Maybe that was what did it, in the end, made up his mind. Hating Zayn took a lot of energy reserves - maybe those reserves were depleted this past year, holding his family together.

“All right,” Louis said, hand sweaty on the phone. “If I don’t like it, I’m leaving. And - ”

“Yeah?”

“I’m probably not going to punch you. Or Niall.”

“Was my idea.” Zayn said, quietly. “So, you can hate me for that, too.”

 

It seems like a long time ago, all of that. Going to Zayn’s flat. Zayn’s apology, his own apology. It stuck better, this time around - third time’s the charm, as it were. _The difference between listening and hearing,_ his mum would say, smug, if she were around to see them.

Thinking about it makes him tired. And anyway, it’s just a concert. What can happen? It’s not like Zayn will bat his eyes and Louis will fall into his bed again. They’re way past that phase, whatever it was - _accidental sex friends_ , maybe; _mates with extra, lemon twist_ \- though it was never something regular enough to name.

Louis makes his way into the sitting room and lays down on the sofa, the leather cold against the backs of his calves. It’s hard to put a finger on it, how things fell apart between him and Zayn - or that’s what he’s told himself, that he’s never been exactly sure what landed the final blow, the one that splintered them apart.

It’s a lie. Life is made up of a certain number of lies, things you tell yourself to get through the minute, the year. Laid out in his sitting room, a week away from seeing Zayn in person, he may as well confront it if he’s going to keep moving forward. But it happened like a chip in the windscreen, small and fixable at first, easily repaired until another rock hits it _just so_ , and then it’s spider-cracks everywhere, the whole structure destabilized. At risk.

2015, the year they were going to rule the world; 2015, the year his world went sideways, over and over. When El ended things, that February - fully, completely ended - that was the first rock, for Louis. It was probably something else for Zayn, a different rock; Louis can acknowledge, now, that it wasn’t the same for them, at the end. Not the same for them ever.

But El ended things, and it put Louis into freefall: new tour, new album, no anchor. Twenty-three, drifting untethered across the world, buoyed by the incredible wave they were riding, him and the lads; letting the wave carry him over the maelstrom Eleanor left in her wake, so he didn’t have to look at it too hard, stare into its shifting depths. He fell into Zayn, then, more than they ever had before. Spent the first part of March burning up hotel beds, hot tubs, bunks on the bus, the dressing room sofa, wherever. If there was a lock on the door, it was fair game. If there wasn’t a lock, it was a challenge. And it became almost - almost like it was real, for a minute. Like if he blinked, they would become something, him and Zayn, more than just a means to an end, a friendly hand to scratch an itch.

Then, poof: Zayn was gone, too. One minute, slamming Louis against a wall, no space left between them. The next, a phone call from the other side of the world. “Not coming back,” he said. Other things; reasons that didn’t matter, after the first part, meaningless assurances.

It was never the same, though they tried for a while. More rocks kept coming, pitched at their weak spots, faster than their half-arsed attempts to patch things up. Twitter wars, ugly jabs, blown off plans, torpedoed promises - there weren’t enough stilted lunches in the world to make it up.

Today’s a different story. Today, he and Zayn are doing fine, in their current sterile iteration. Today, he’s got nothing else to do - no emails to answer, no errands to run, no meetings to sort. The world is his fucking oyster, and he’s going to have a nap.

 

So he ends up going to the gig, just like Niall says. It’s the last part of Zayn’s North American leg, a cluster of shows on the west coast and then New York - not that Louis is keeping track. His own tour’s keeping him busy enough, and he learned to stop thinking about Zayn a long time ago.

Zayn’s tour is smart, though: great venues, just enough locations to hit the big areas, taking his sweet ass time. That’s his thing - doing it just differently enough, so you always think it’s on his terms.

Niall nudges him, where they’re huddled in VIP. “Look at that,” he leans in to shout in Louis’ ear.

“I know,” he says. The sound of his reply is swallowed by the screaming crowd.

He needs to smoke in the worst way, from the opening note. His head’s going to split open, a big bloody pomegranate of complicated shit, but the songs - he’s always a sucker for someone putting it out there, laying themselves bare with truth. And Zayn’s done that, this album, this tour, though the truth of it has hit a bit too close to home at times.

Zayn looks tiny up on stage. And it’s hard to put it in context: that Zayn, the one he knew, down to the exact smell of his sweat under the hot lights. This one, slender and furious, electric and tender; forgiving and mocking. Niall sings along to at least half the songs, drawing attention away from Louis. He’s a good lad, one of the best. Loyal as anything. It means a lot.

Tucked into the shadow of his snapback, Louis clutches his drink and tries to mind his face, school it against curious gazes. It’s a good show - incredible show - but his nerves are shot by the end.

It takes fucking ages to get to the after party, some posh lounge he’s been to before, though they all blur together after a while. There’s food laid out, green bottles of beer tucked into bins of ice. Fancier stuff on glass shelves, lit up by fancy lights. He can’t help scouting a way to sneak outside - his fingers are literally aching for a smoke.

“All right, there, Tommo?” Niall asks, and the sharpness of his smile is tempered by the softness of his eyes.

“Shove off. Why don’t you make yourself useful and get us a drink?”

“Fair enough.” Niall slaps him on the back and makes his way over to the beer bins.

In the end he spots an exit, tucked behind a velvety curtain at the far end of the room. Thank fucking god. But it’s no good, since the man himself shows up before he can make a break for it.

Then there’s nothing to do but wait. Zayn’s approaching like a train wreck, inevitable. He looks good, still vibrating with post-gig energy. Maybe he won’t see them - this place is full of his crew, after all. They’re hardly top banana. Niall comes back with two bottles, just in time.

“Cheers,” he tips his bottle to Niall. There’s the clink of the glass, the cold rush of lager down his throat.

“Hau weg die scheisse,” Niall toasts, and takes a drink of his own.

Zayn gets closer, a cluster of people away. Louis’ beer is sweating against his fingers. He appreciates that, sympathizes with it, even - the irreconcilable differences between your insides and your outsides, how it spills over in a sloppy mess sometimes.

Then Zayn’s right there, life-size, homing in on Niall like heat-seeking missile.

“Nialler!” he half-shouts, moving in the rest of the way.

“Zayner!” Niall shouts back, mirroring Zayn’s wide smile.

He’s so close that Louis can smell the whiff of Zayn’s aftershave as he pulls Niall in. Niall grips the back of Zayn’s t-shirt with his free hand and tucks his face into his neck. Neither one of them seems in a hurry to let go.

It’s harder than it looks, trying not to notice if anyone is noticing them. Of course they are, it’s prime fucking twitter content. _#ziall_ will be trending by midnight, he’d bet his whole pack of cigarettes on it. Wootton will claim some kind of inside scoop, it’ll be a shambles.

They do let go, eventually. Zayn grabs the back of Niall’s neck and says one last thing. Louis would be able to hear it except he can’t hear anymore. His ears are wrecked, it’s all just buzzing and rattling - the end is coming near. Shame. Can’t do music, probably, if your ears are fucked. He should look into that, never really landed on a Plan B after Up All Night took off.

Zayn just looks at him and rolls his eyes and ropes him in for a squeeze as well - full-bore, not the half-hug he was expecting, arms tight like a second set of ribs.

“Breathe.” Zayn’s voice is low, there’s a laugh somewhere under it. Louis’ hearing has finally rerouted itself, linked back to a useful part of his brain.

“Fuck off,” Louis murmurs, and relaxes into him all at once.

It’s stupid worrying about what people think. He tightens his arms, takes a big breath - just to be a jackass, just to push his way farther into Zayn’s space. Now trending on twitter: _#zouisreunion_ , _#zouis4eva_. They split apart at the same time.

“Thanks for coming,” Zayn says.

There’s something crooked and fierce in the way he looks at Louis, like he’s daring him to say something he shouldn’t. The shit’s been said, though - can’t be unsaid, can only be tilled under, radioactive soil. Time passes and you scatter some seeds, see what grows.

“Fucking brilliant,” Louis squeezes the tops of his shoulders, since he’s still only fifteen centimeters away. “Good show.”

It’s that big, sweet smile that always does him in - creeping over Zayn’s face like a kid on Christmas morning, looking at the tree for the first time to see if something’s actually there. It’s hard not to smile back.

The moment’s broken by a woman tapping Zayn on the shoulder - tailored trousers, loose shirt, her whole face says, “industry folk.” For one mutinous second, Zayn resists turning away.

Louis squeezes his shoulders again and shoves him toward her, as Niall’s amused gaze burns the side of his head. “Don’t worry. Was gonna have a smoke, anyway.”

Zayn turns back and looks between them. “All right. I’ll see you, yeah? I mean, don’t just like fuck off and not tell me you’re leaving.” He gives Niall a pointed look.

Niall holds up his hands. “One time, I did that. And I was completely plastered. Never going to let me live it down, are you?”

Louis digs his cigarettes out of his pocket and edges towards the exit door. Zayn starts to move, like he’s coming with - but he doesn’t, after all; he turns towards his rep and makes nice. She tows him away, making sure he circulates. It’s better that way. He’s got a whole movie reel of memories of him and Zayn and a pack of smokes that doesn’t need to be dredged up just now.

“Be right back,” he tells Niall.

Niall nods, but doesn’t offer to come with. He’s wise for his tender age.

Outside, it’s warm and misting, rare precipitation for LA in this season. He could almost imagine it’s London for a minute, if he squints his eyes nearly shut and pretends it’s ten degrees colder. It’s not London, this shitty alley in between high-end clubs. He lights up, waiting for the familiar relief; but the smoke is flat in his mouth, sour. He really needs to quit. He’s not going to.

Everything seems easier out here, where he’s not half-smothered by expectation. His ears are still ringing from the concert. Zayn smashed it, hands-down. And them - well, they’re patching the fence, aren’t they? Even if it doesn’t look the same or work the same, it’s still a fence. Even if he’s waylaid sometimes by anger. Or worse, by wanting. Being angry with Zayn’s been part of his life for five years, give or take. Wanting him’s been longer, though it comes and goes; a phantom limb, only hurting at random.

He lights another cigarette, fuck it. No one’s expecting him back directly. Niall’s probably made five new friends already, gotten invited to a wedding, a golf match.

The building’s painted stucco is scratchy against his back, where he leans against the wall. He sets his beer on the ground and pulls out his phone: notifications galore. He thumbs open the first one, his nightly text from Briana. It’s a video - and he shouldn’t, but he hits play before he can stop himself. It’s grainy and hard to hear, since she’d been filming in the half-dark, but there’s Freddie, sitting in his bed, talking to his stuffed animals in a tiny squeaky voice. He’s got his favorites set up in a half-circle around him, but Louis can’t make out anything he’s saying.

 _The Freddie Show, season four_ he types back.

There’s another text, this one from Eleanor. Opening it takes an act of bravery of a different kind. He’s never sure what she’s going to say, how much it might sting. Not that she does it on purpose; neither one of them did anything on purpose.

**Tell Zayn hello ❤️**

She'd have liked the show tonight, probably. He wants to call her, it’d be good to hear her voice, but it’s not the right place or time. What would he say? _“Zayn was great. I sucked his dick on the bus once, still think about it sometimes?”_

He never knew how to tell Eleanor, back then, and it fell into “tour rules,” anyway, that broad category of forgiveness they all used at one time or another to make it through: what happens when you’re [ _broken up, completely pissed, in Thailand, dressed as a banana_ ] doesn’t count. Even if it’s with a band mate. Even if it happens more than once. And later, when he could have told her, he didn’t. And now, well. It’s not the kind of thing you can run past your ex, not even your double-ex-still-friend-of-sorts - not unless you’re Niall.

The cigarette’s burned down to the filter when he puts his phone away. It’ll seem obvious if he stays out here any longer. He picks up his beer, squares his shoulders, pastes a smile on his face. It’s only thirty percent fake, it’s how he knows he’s maturing.

Back in the club, it’s not hard to find Niall, who’s deep in conversation with at least three people that Louis’ never seen before. Louis grabs him another beer on the way over. He’s stumbled into an animated discussion of American football and absolutely no one seems to give a shit when he joins. Niall’s arguing about the Rams with a woman whose face is just familiar enough that Louis feels like he should know her.

“If they don’t draft a new running back, they’ve lost the plot,” Niall says.

“The running game’s fine,” she fires back. “If the offensive line could do their jobs.”

Niall catches his eye and winks. He’s not very subtle, bless him, the way half his face scrunches up. He can be an annoying shit when he wants to be, people never hold it against him. In three seconds, he’ll throw his head back and cackle, and throw his arm around whoever she is, and it’ll be best friends again.

“How’s your tour going?” The bloke to his left is making nice, despite his horrendous hipster beard.

“It’s good, it’s good. East coast up next, it’ll be sick.”

“Any festivals lined up this summer?” the bloke asks. He puts his hands up. “Don’t worry, I’m just a fan.”

“Something mid-summer,” Louis allows. “It’s all I can tell you. Get the label down me back again, it’s the last thing I need.”

Zayn circles back their way eventually, when some of the group has moved on. A couple of beers have helped; it doesn’t feel like raw electric wires when he gets close, this time, though the sheer awkward energy between them could power a small town.

Zayn fiddles with his jacket zip for a moment, shifts his weight, shifts it back.

“How’ve you been?” he asks at last, quiet enough that no one can listen in.

“All right,” Louis says. He’s got the strongest urge to pick at the label on the beer bottle; keeping his hands relaxed is an effort. “Getting by. El says hi, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s. You’re talking, then.”

“Yeah. Giving friendship a go.” The words still taste weird in his mouth, though it’s easier now, months after everything. “It’s good.”

Zayn looks like he wishes he could stuff the last few sentences back into his mouth. “How’s, uh. How’s Freddie?”

That’s a welcome subject-change. “He’s lovely, isn’t he. Four-year-olds get into some crazy shit, though.”

“Yeah?” Zayn raises his eyebrows.

Louis might be a walking stereotype, but he fishes his phone out of his pocket for pictures. “He’s really into animals right now, so we took him to this tiny zoo last week -”

It had to be a tiny zoo, or they’d have been papped or mobbed. It’s not like Freddie cares yet, either way, if the zoo is fancy. He shows Zayn the picture of Freddie pointing at the raccoon exhibit, mouth stretched wide with joy.

“- he’s been pretending he’s a raccoon ever since.”

“Cool,” Zayn says. “I’d like to meet him. You could come out to the farm. Both of you, like. He’d like it, I bet.”

Across the way, Niall’s watching them, a tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. He sticks his tongue into his cheek, poking it into the side - he’s probably two seconds from making a rude gesture. Can’t take him anywhere.

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s forgotten about the farm somehow, though he’s pretty sure even Harry’s made the trip out. “I’m sure he would.”

“We’ll work it out,” Zayn smiles. “After this leg’s over, maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe.” It’s easy enough to agree when it’s never gonna happen. It’s a nice idea, though, going to the farm, seeing the animals. Simple.

Zayn gets pulled away by someone else, which is a relief. It makes it easier, when Louis doesn’t have to think about the way his stomach inflates when Zayn talks about his kid. When Zayn looks at him out the corner of his eye, shy like they didn’t used to know each other from the inside out. He wants it to piss him off; it doesn’t, anymore.

Niall slides over, into Zayn’s vacant spot. “Settle down,” he says, slinging an arm over Louis’ shoulders. Louis never should have told him, that time Niall was just back from Asia and they were arse over tits. That’s the thing with words though - once they’re out, there’s nothing you can do about it.

They finish their beers and that’s it; he goes home, and life goes on.

 

And life is normal. Despite it being in Las Vegas, the hotel room he’s staying in is absolutely normal, a replica of another hotel room three cities ago. Bland gray walls, bland white bed, new carpet smell. The neon lights out the window are the only sign that he’s somewhere else. They’re going out later, him and the crew, after the show. But for now, he’s holed up, bored out of his skull.

That’s the thing with touring - keeps you dead busy, four hours a day. The other twenty hours are on you. Touring always brings an uptick in chart position, especially in the US. The charts shouldn’t matter, except. He’s been smashing it in the UK and a list of other countries; gaining traction in the US is huge, and he knows it. The label knows it.

The most surprising thing is that Zayn texts him. Not every day, but often enough - pictures of venues, cups of tea backstage, his guitar tech pulling faces in a diner somewhere.

And Louis texts back. They do this sometimes, get a tentative bit of chat going before one of them stops. But no one stops, this time. It could be alright; it could be dangerous, tempting their track record, which has only gotten spottier as the years have gone on.

He owns a certain part of that, if he’s being honest. Picking fights, spouting off. Showing up at Zayn’s door, pissed and angry. It was all tangled up back then - wanting him to stay, wanting him to go. Wanting the precise ache of his jaw when it was filled with Zayn’s heavy dick. 

It’s different to when they tried to mend things before. It feels different to Louis, at least - feels good, like he’s not just waiting to see how it falls apart again, not waiting for an excuse to push the button, trigger the implosion, evacuate the wreckage.

And they’re being careful, too, though they’ve never properly discussed it; staying on the right side of the line. Friends, no extra.

His ears still burn when he looks up Zayn’s tour schedule. It’s not like Louis hasn’t done it before, eyeballed Zayn’s website. Zayn’s got two New York shows left, the last of his tour. The summer’s mostly open, probably for festivals not yet announced. But maybe not: leave it to Zayn to blow off summer touring so he can farm or some shit.

 

As if he summoned farmer Zayn into being, Louis gets another text a few days later, while he’s laid up in yet another hotel room. It’s a selfie this time, Zayn’s face framed by wild hair. He’s crouched down just outside a fence. On the inside of the fence are goats, one leaning in close enough to nibble at his hair.

 **Peace at last** , he’s captioned it. He’s mad.

Louis stares at the picture for longer than he should. Maybe it’s not just Zayn who’s lost it. But Zayn did say - and he wants to do something with Freddie, all on his own, give Brianna some time to herself. He’s got a break in tour that lines up pretty close with Zayn’s schedule, early June. He doesn’t believe in signs, or fate, but it’s almost too convenient. The stars will never quite line up like this again. So, he takes his life in his hands and taps out a reply.

_Did you mean it?_

Zayn replies straight away, a minor miracle in its own right.

**Mean what? that you’re an arsehole?**

_The farm, fuck face_. _Got Freddie for a stretch, coming up._ He sends it before he can overthink the whole thing, and immediately overthinks it. He’s working on a follow up, casually backing out, _It’s no problem if it doesn’t work_ , when the call comes in.

Zayn’s voice spills out of the speaker, low and lazy, and walks right up his spine. “Are you serious?”

“Hold on. Is this _the_ Zayn? Javaad? Malik?”

“Shut up.” He sounds sleepy. Of course he does, it’s a lot later in New York. Or wherever the farm is. Louis should probably know that, first.

“Please hold while I verify some information for your security.” Louis puts the phone on speaker.

“Shut _up_.”

It’s quiet for a moment, just some rustling on the other end of the line. He may have opened the door, but Zayn’s going to have to walk through.

“Where are you?” Zayn sounds muffled, like he’s got the phone set somewhere else.

“A hotel in Denver. Where are you?”

“Funny you ask. I’m at a farm in Pennsylvania, if you can believe it.”

Louis shifts on the pillows. They put so many on the beds here, it’s a bit ridiculous. There’s something intimate about lying in bed and talking to Zayn, he can’t think about it too much.

“Do tell,” Louis says. “Have you finished milking the cows?”

“So, like,” Zayn ignores him. “When were you thinking? If you meant it.”

“I meant it.”

 

And that’s how he ended up here, sat in Briana’s kitchen, asking to borrow his own child. She’s a wonderful mum and a friend of sorts, even after everything, but it’s difficult to read the expression on her face at the moment.

She pushes her hair behind her ears, looking at him carefully. “So. What do you want?” She’s trying to be soft, at least.

“You know we talked about me having Freddie for a stretch.”

She’s pissed off, all of a sudden; it looks good on her. “I swear to god, Louis -”

“Not like that, not like that. I still want to. Always want to, you know that.”

She takes a breath, takes a drink from her water bottle, sets it down gently on the counter.

“Okay. It’s just, he gets so excited.”

That stings. “I’m hoping to have him for a bit, coming up. Next week, maybe. Before that trip up the east coast. And I was wondering…”

“Spit it out.” She’s clenching her water bottle, now.

“You know - or maybe you don’t know, I don’t know what you know.” Jesus, he’s nervous, feels like he’s asking someone to prom. He draws a breath. “Zayn’s got a farm. In Pennsylvania, not far from the city. He asked if Freddie and I could come for a visit.”

Bria’s eyebrows fly up, she doesn’t bother to pretend they didn’t. “Start from the beginning, please.”

“What’s the beginning?” It’s a fair question. Things get pretty muddled, when he thinks about the lads.

“The ‘ _Zayn has a farm_ ’ part,” she says.

 

And that’s how he ended up _here_ , walking down an airport chute in Philadelphia with an extremely excited Freddie bolting ahead.

Kayla is waiting outside the gate area to meet them when they arrive, just as they arranged. Even more surprising is that Louis can recognize her from the picture Zayn sent. Guess she can’t exactly hold up a sign that says, _Louis and Freddie Tomlinson_.

She is holding up a sign, though. He’s got to squint to make it out. _Michael Douglas Bradford,_  it reads. He laughs, despite himself. Trust Zayn to bring out their old stand-in for _massive douchebag_ ; trust Zayn to probably mean it, too, when he wrote it on the sign.

Freddie’s a ball of energy after being stuck on the plane for so long. Luckily, at three in the afternoon on Tuesday, the airport’s pretty dead. Freddie spies Kayla a minute after he does, and the jig is up - if she hadn’t figured who they were, she knows now.

“Dad!” he yells. “It’s the lady, it’s the lady!”

Volume control is something they’ve been working on, but it’s mostly a losing battle. He made friends on the plane, though, Freddie did; some nice older women who sat behind them, suffering through his garbled knock-knock jokes and other stories.

Kayla meets them halfway, offers up her hand. She’s got a good handshake.

“I’m Kayla,” she says, tucking the sign under her arm.

“Freddie, this is Kayla.”

She kneels down to talk to him face to face. It’s a nice quality; she looks young, but maybe she’s got kids of her own.

“Hi, Freddie. How was your flight?”

“Dumb and bad,” he says, looking earnestly back at her. “But I had lots of snacks.”

“D-word, Freddie.” Louis’ torn between laughter and irritation. “We’ve talked about this.”

Kayla flattens down an obvious smile. “Did you do anything fun?”

“Well...daddy took me to the potty and showed me the toilet and where the poo-”

“Freddie!”

Kayla straightens up. “The toilet _is_ pretty impressive, Louis,” she scolds.

They make it to the baggage claim all right with Freddie walking on his own. He narrowly misses getting run over by a cart full of cases; after that, he’s happy enough to hold Kayla’s hand. The baggage claim is fairly deserted, mostly just their own flight and a small group of people waiting two carousels over. Freddie’s a bad combination of too little sleep and too much sitting, but he’s fascinated by the conveyor belt, though he screams a little when the first case comes tumbling out.

“It’s a volcano! Don’t worry,” he turns to Kayla. “I’m a fire-type. I’m lava-proof, I won’t die.”

The passengers are amused, at least. Their bags pop out soon enough, and then it’s time to load the car. Kayla’s got the booster seat he asked for, already installed.

Louis gives a low whistle. “Nice work.”

She winks.

Freddie protests being put back into a seat, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“It’s not a long drive to the farm,” Kayla reassures them.

“Good, brilliant.”

It is good, but at the end of the drive is the farm, and inside the farm is Zayn, and Louis has been too focused on getting through the travel to think about the outcome of the travel. A fairly effective strategy, which is rapidly coming to an end. He’s got nothing to worry about - there’ll probably be a buffer of people around them, anyway, if Zayn’s got his crew about.

It’s already late afternoon, though his body thinks it’s lunch time. Kayla runs them through the McDonald’s drive up and they eat in the car like savages; it’d drive Niall wild if he were there.

“Does the farm have raccoons?” Freddie asks, through his chicken nuggets.

“Probably,” Kayla says, glancing back in the rearview mirror. “Outside, I mean. There are all kinds of critters that live there.”

They drive north, so at least the sun’s not in his eyes. The sprawl of the city gives way to open fields split by roads, edged with trees to break the wind. Houses, barns, rolling hills slanted over by the late afternoon sun, the deepening green hope of late spring. It’s almost not real. It can’t be real, it’s too picture-perfect.

He gets it, all of a sudden, why Zayn would want this: the endless grass like an ocean, dotted with tiny cows and horses; people too busy or too far away to give a shit about who their neighbor is or what he’s doing.

“Almost there,” Kayla says.

“We’ve been in the car for six hundred minutes.” Freddie starts kicking the back of his seat again. “A hundred million minutes.”

The Big Mac settles like a stone in Louis’ stomach. It was so easy to say yes to this trip at the time, when it was just a conversation over the phone - not even in person, ephemeral, an idea floating through the space and time between them.

“Here we are,” Kayla hangs a left, down a long gravel path that takes them through the trees at the edge of the road to… a farm. An actual bleeding farm.

The house looks old, just like you’d picture an American farmhouse, L-shaped, gray clapboard siding. Beyond the house, there’s a barn, painted a rich purple. It’s hard to see more from the drive, except some fencing, a cluster of other smaller buildings. There’s a circular area at the end of the driveway; Kayla pulls over and parks the car.

Zayn’s not anywhere in sight; though Louis doesn’t want to be obvious about it, he darts his eyes everywhere. He’s being ridiculous. Dunno what he thought, that Zayn’d be standing on the front stoop awaiting their arrival, freshly baked cake in hand? Or pop out from behind the willow tree, dressed like a murderous clown? Ridiculous.

But Louis is a dad and there’s shit to do - and sometimes parenting shit, family shit, career shit, has been the only thing that’s kept him moving forward, this past year. So, he throws open the door, and steps out onto the gravel. It crunches under his feet just like gravel roads do everywhere. He opens Freddie’s door and time finally speeds up again. He leans over Freddie to undo the buckle, brushing the crumbs off his lap out onto the gravel.

“Are we here? Is this the farm?” Freddie’s squirming everywhere, trying to see around.

“Sure is, lad.”

“I knew it!” Freddie scrambles out of his seat and into Louis’ arms.

He lifts Freddie out of the car and sets him down on the driveway. “Stay by me. I know you’re excited, but we’ve got to get our stuff into the house first, okay?”

“Okay, daddy.” Freddie squats to pick up a handful of gravel, lets it run through his fingers.

Kayla opens the back hatch, and Louis goes ‘round to get their cases. Out here, the songbirds are loud, their whooping and trilling undercut by the buzzing of insects. The sun sits like a familiar hand on the back of his neck as he leans in for their bags.

“This time of day, Zayn’s probably in the house. Want to go see?” She glances over at him, quick and light. Maybe he hasn’t been as good at covering up as he thought.

“Yeah.” He hoists his duffel higher on his shoulder. “Of course. Dying to see farmer Zayn. Does he wear dungarees?”

She snorts. “Not that I’ve seen, though I wouldn’t put it past him. He gets pretty into it.”

“Oi, Freddie!” Freddie comes around the other side of the SUV, hands full of pebbles and dust. “Come on, we’re going to explore the house.”

The house faces south. The front yard is mostly the driveway and a square of lawn, framed by willow trees. There’s an open front porch with an honest to god swing on it. It’s romantic, not what he expected - what did he expect? A concrete bunker tagged all over in spray paint?

Kayla climbs the front stairs like she lives there. She doesn’t bother with knocking, and Freddie’s close on her heels, not shy at all. The interior of the house seems dark after the dazzling sun; or it could be spots in front of his eyes. His heart’s beating overtime, like it’s finally cottoned on to the situation.

“Zayn!” Kayla calls. “Where you at? I’ve come bearing some very special visitors for you.”

There’s a pause, a second, a universe; then he shouts back something unintelligible from upstairs. The scene’s familiar enough to put Louis at ease - how many times has he waited on Zayn, over the years? Seems like hundreds. He keeps a tight grip on Freddie’s hand.

“It’s all right,” Kayla says. “You can let him wander.”

He looks down at Freddie, staring wide-eyed around the unfamiliar space. There’s a big staircase in the front hall, a sitting room to the left. To the right’s another room - looks like the dining room, from what he can tell.

“You can go play in there,” he nods to the sitting room. “Be good though, okay? I don’t want Zayn to kick us out.”

“I’ll be awesome,” Freddie says, with absolute conviction. He gallops into the sitting room. Louis can mostly see him, climbing up onto the sofa and bouncing experimentally.

A minute later Zayn appears at the top of the stairs. His hair's wet and his feet are bare, and a tentative smile splits his face as he starts hurtling down the stairs. This was a terrible idea.

“Hey.” He pulls Louis in with one arm. Zayn smells like coconut and something tart: green apples, longing. His hair is cold against the side of Louis’ face. “Sorry, just getting cleaned up,” he says, pulling back to look around. “Where’s -?”

“Oi, Freddie,” Louis calls, craning his neck to find him. He’s wandered off the sofa, probably fallen into an air duct somewhere. “Come meet your Uncle Zayn.”

Freddie crawls into the room. “ _Squeak_ , _squeak_.” It’s amazing, the register he can reach when he really tries. He fetches up by Louis’ feet and looks earnestly up at Zayn.

Louis’ careful to keep his face quiet, smoother than a lake. Freddie’s been in raccoon-mode for weeks, on and off. He can’t wait to see how Zayn deals with it. It’s not fair, but it is funny; he’ll take what he can get in these desperate times.

“What do we have here?” Zayn asks. He’s game for it, of course.

Freddie just squeaks at him, moving closer. “It’s a little lost animal.”

“What kind of animal?”

“A raccoony,” Freddie shrills, in his highest possible voice.

“Cool. I love raccoons,” Zayn says. “What’s your name?”

Freddie’s racoon name changes frequently, this should be good.

“Pinecone.” He sits up, crooking his hands by his face like paws. “I love pinecones.”

“Can I show you the house, Pinecone? You’re going to be staying here for a few days, so I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

Freddie nods, bouncing up and down.

Kayla laughs and claps Louis on the shoulder. “I’m gonna head out, if that’s ok.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zayn hugs her for a second. It’s terrible, but Louis analyses the hug - he can’t help it, he’s a terrible person. “Thanks. Tell Will I said hi.”

She leaves, and the house seems oddly empty. He thought there’d be more people about - maybe there are, and he just hasn’t seen them yet. Maybe there aren’t and he’s wandered onto some awful reality series, where his facial expressions will be recorded and discussed in minute detail.

“Do you need anything?” Zayn asks, drawing him back out. “Food? Drink? Loo?”

“Think we’re alright for now. We stopped on the way here.”

“Then I’ll show you around. Can just leave your bags there for now, if you want.”

He leans in suddenly and pulls Louis into another hug; longer this time, arms snaked all the way around. Zayn bumps the sides of their heads together, gentle, while Freddie crawls around their feet. And those arms pull something inside of him, wind it tighter and tighter.

“Can’t believe you’re actually here.” Zayn says. He looks so genuinely, unfiltered happy - it makes Louis feel bad, being surprised by it.

The farmhouse has been updated some, but it’s still essentially a farmhouse. The first floor has a kitchen, a loo. Zayn leads them through a door at the back of the sitting room, and there’s another room - secret, almost.

“This is the movie room,” he says, a smile tracing over his face. There’s a projector screen, a big sectional sofa. It’s dark by design and smells a little like weed. A guitar’s propped up in the corner.

The kitchen’s nice, a big rectangle taking up most of the rear of the house, looking over the garden and back porch; bright with sun, split by a central island.

Upstairs is more of the same. There are a few bedrooms, a few bathrooms. Freddie’s in his element, traipsing through the rooms, poking in the corners. He runs ahead of them, making announcements in raccoon-voice.

“Here’s another room!” Freddie squeals.

The first bedroom is obviously Zayn’s. It’s not particularly tidy, but all his figurines are lined up on shelves on the wall. He skates his eyes over the other details: clothes piled on a chair, blankets rumpled on the bed, pillows bunched up just the way Louis remembers. He has to look away.

At the end of the hall is a bathroom, another bedroom - empty, just like the other bedroom across the hall. He has to ask.

“Is…anyone else here?”

Zayn shrugs. “Nah. I thought it’d be easier, like. Plus Freddie, I didn’t know how he is with strangers. Is that all right?”

“‘Course,” Louis says. It’s not alright.

Zayn hefts Freddie’s case. “Do you want to share a room with your raccoon friend, here?”

“Either way,” Louis shrugs. “Don’t mind sharing, but he’s fine by himself. I brought his monitor.”

Zayn’s standing in the middle of the hallway, between the rooms. “But which do you want?”

People are always asking him that, like it matters. Like most of life’s not just reacting to the shitty hand you’re dealt, or decisions other people made for you.

“Pinecone, come pick a room,” Louis calls.

Freddie runs down the hallway and into one of the empty rooms, climbing onto the bed to flop down on a pillow. “This one, this one,” he chants. And so it’s settled.

Zayn takes them out to the farm once the rooms are sorted and Freddie’s had a wee. He walks the grounds with authority, clearly at ease - and it’s somehow hot as hell, listening to him talk about the buildings and feed schedules and planting season. His worn-out t-shirt clings to the line of his back, his narrow hips. It’s hard not to stare.

Is it something he could do? Set up in the middle of nowhere, surround himself with crops and animals. Probably not. Louis is a city soul, would rather lose himself in a wave of faces than find himself in the middle of nowhere. It’s alright, though, it’s good. It’s good for Zayn, obviously; something he needs. Maybe if Louis had understood that sooner, they would’ve made out better. Or maybe if Zayn had shown up when he said he would, if he hadn’t been such an unrepentant dickhead -

They round the corner of the barn, and Freddie takes off running. “It’s goats!”

Freddie’s sometimes hard to understand, especially when he’s excited, but Zayn’s good with him. He hustles to catch up with Freddie at the fence line, where the animals are huddled. Louis trails behind, watching as Zayn points out the different goats to his rapt son.

“Goats?” Louis asks, once he reaches them. They’re cute enough, even if they don’t serve a real purpose. The smallest one has a wicked look on its face, not just because of its curling horns.

Zayn shrugs, feeding some clover to his nearest friend. “I just like them, dunno. They’ve got a lot of personality.” There’s a black and white one climbing a ladder, up to the barn roof. “Built a little deck up there for them, so they can chill out.”

“Are there more animals?” Freddie’s practically jumping out of his skin, waiting for Zayn’s reply.

“Had some cows but they’re a lot of work, if you only have a few, to be honest. They moved next farm over, there’s a bigger herd. Plus, I don’t have to worry about so much milking.”

“Cows make milk,” Freddie agrees. “Did you have chocolate cows, too?”

Zayn laughs. “I didn’t, sorry. I do have some horses, though. Do you like horses?”

The horse paddock is big, much larger than the goat enclosure. Freddie’s entranced but nervous as the horses come close, crowding the edge of the fence. He doesn’t want to pet them, and Zayn doesn’t pressure him.

Louis’ not keen to pet them, either. The thing is, no one tells you how many teeth horses have, or that they’re the size of small boulders, and could happily snap your fingers clean off. Zayn’s having none of it, unfortunately.

“This one is Cool,” he says, grabbing Louis’ wrist. Zayn’s fingers wrap the narrow bone all the way across, send heat licking up his arm. He should’ve left the long sleeves on. “He’s a mellow dude. Rapidash is a little shyer. Put your palm down, flat on top of his nose.”

Cool holds still for approximately one second, long enough for Louis to feel the soft skin at the top of his nose, the bristly hairs of his face. Then he jerks his head up, too fast to follow, and Louis snatches his hand back. He doesn’t shriek, fortunately, though it’s a near thing.

Zayn and Freddie shake with laughter.

“Do that again, Dad.” Freddie’s hanging off the leg of his trackies; he’ll probably pull them down if he doesn’t let up.

Zayn’s still laughing, leaned back against the fence in his stupid grungy t-shirt, worn so thin that the evening light shines through. With the sun behind him, his face is in shadow - he could be anyone, an aloof stranger, the farm hand from down the street. That last one has potential, christ.

Freddie’s an odd combination of excess energy and exhaustion by the time they make it to the chickens. There’s a handful of grown birds, colorful and strange, clucking and walking around. Like all the animals, they rush to the fence when they see Zayn.

“What is this?” Louis asks, gesturing to the fence. “You’re like the animal whisperer.”

“I feed them, you idiot,” Zayn says, before turning to Freddie. “I’ve got some chicks in the barn, if you want to pet them.”

Freddie’s eyes light up. “Yes, yes! I want to.”

The chicks are in a small enclosure tucked on the inside of the barn. “They need to stay warm while their feathers come in,” Zayn explains to Freddie. “Even though it’s warm outside, it’s still not quite hot enough. These little chicks are almost ready but. Not yet.”

“Can I really pet them?” Freddie asks, looking up at Zayn.

Zayn makes a complicated hand gesture at Louis. It could be lots of things: “Fuck you,” or “There’s a bee, get it away,” or “Is that okay with you?”

“Of course,” Louis says. “They do look a little lonely.”

Zayn opens the gate and leads Freddie through. “They get special food. Do you want to feed them?”

Freddie nods. “Yes, please.” He’s a good lad, minding his manners.

“Just remember - chickens have lots of germs, so you have to wash your hands right after. OK?”

He nods again, looking serious. Zayn scoops out a little bucket of feed from a metal bin in the corner of the pen. The chicks hear the sound and come scrambling over, like feathery balls on legs, pine shavings caught in their fluff.

Freddie sits on the plank floor with his hands full of feed, and the chicks spill over him. Zayn supervises for a moment, then slips his phone out of his pocket and lines up a picture. That’s clever - Louis’ completely forgotten to take any photos so far, Briana will be annoyed.

“They’re so soft,” Freddie says, looking up at Louis. His eyes are huge, like his smile. He screams a little when they start eating, their tiny beaks pecking at his hands and the food spilled by his feet.

“He won’t get hurt,” Zayn says, looking over at Louis. “Relax.”

“I’m worried more about the chicks,” Louis lies. But he loosens his grip on the fence’s top rail.

“They won’t get hurt, either. They’re almost three weeks old, already pretty strong.”

The chicks don’t eat for too long, but the evening’s wearing on. It’s still early in LA-time, but Freddie’s running on no nap and a lot of excitement. Zayn dumps the extra food back in the bin, checks the water supply and food dish.

“Alright, then.” He starts scooping up the chicks, depositing them back near the heat lamp. They seem ready to settle down, cuddling up against each other. “Ready to go in?”

Freddie shakes his head. “I want to stay in here all night. Can we do a sleepover in the barn, like the animals?”

It’s hard to say no to him, when his voice does that combination of pleading and innocence. It hits Louis right under the heart, every time.

“Not tonight, buddy. It’s not too comfy in here for people - there aren’t any beds for us, are there? The chicks will still be here in the morning, don’t worry.”

The stubborn tilt of Freddie’s chin is so familiar he could be looking in the mirror. Zayn must feel the same way, based on the smile flickering over his mouth. Best to avert the meltdown before it starts, if that’s even possible. Freddie’s emotions run hot when he’s tired, and when he’s hungry - also like his dad. Also like Zayn, if it’s honesty-hour.

“Say good night to the chickens,” Louis starts.

“They’re chicks.” Freddie’s mutinous, but stands up. “Good night chickies,” he croons.

Freddie’s dusty and smells like chicken feed, but he clings to Louis’ side willingly enough, dropping his head into Louis’ shoulder. “Come on, lad, let’s get you washed up.”

Zayn watches them without bothering to hide it, and the smile he wears isn’t mocking in the slightest.

Louis pulls a face at him.

“Shut up,” Zayn says. “It’s cute.” He takes out his phone again, gets another picture. The barn’s too dark, it won’t turn out anyway.

“Gonna put a dumb filter on that?” He hoists Freddie higher on his hip and heads toward the barn’s double doors.

“Yeah, with like rainbows and shit. Put it on Insta, make it my icon.”

“An icon of an icon.” Louis shrugs, as best he can with Freddie clinging to him. “Could do worse.”

“Hey,” Freddie says. “You said a bad word.”

It’s not a long walk from the barn to the house, but Freddie’s not exactly a lightweight. His feet dangle, bumping Louis’ knees with each uneven step; it’s hard to believe he’s getting so tall.

Zayn makes them take off their shoes on the back porch. “Soz. It’s why I told you not to be fancy, too much muck to track into the house.”

They were outside longer than he thought, the sun just starting its slow dip below the tree line. Freddie’s still nuzzled into him, forehead sweaty against his neck as he slips through the back door into the kitchen.

“Let’s get you washed up.” He plunks Freddie down on the counter next to the sink.

The sink’s one of those double-sized farmhouse numbers, white porcelain overhanging the countertop. Freddie perks up as soon as the water starts running. Louis stops up the sink and squirts soap into his little hands; it smells like apples, sharp in the warm evening air. Getting Freddie properly under the tap is a bit of a lean, but Zayn brings over a stool from the island so that he can kneel on it, splash in the water for a while.

“Thanks,” Louis says, tapping Zayn on the shoulder.

Zayn flashes a smile and goes to grab a lager out of the fridge, holding one out for Louis in the darkening kitchen.

The bottle’s cold in his hand and the beer’s cold in his mouth; it washes the dust, the flight, the tiredness away. Zayn rifles through cabinets, coming up with a Spider-Man cup for Freddie.

“OJ okay for him?”

“Yeah, good. He loves it. Have any tea in this deluxe farmhouse of yours?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

There’s no sting to it, at least not that Louis can hear - and he’s a mess but he is grateful for it, every inch they’ve gained back over the past months.

Zayn pulls open another cabinet, housing the coffee and tea. “Want me to put the kettle on?”

“Maybe.” He looks speculatively at his free hand. “Could double-fist.”

“Just let me know. What’s mine is yours.” He makes his way over, skirting the puddle forming by the sink, settles next to Louis against the center island. “You hungry?”

Freddie stops splashing, all ears all of a sudden. “I’m hungry,” he announces. “Hungry for chick food.” He dumps some more soap into the sink. The kitchen might float away soon, if he doesn’t let up.

“I could eat,” Louis says. “Depends on what’s on the menu.”

Zayn gives him the finger, lets it hang in the air between them. “Your discriminating taste buds my ar...bor.” He glances over at Freddie, but he’s not paying attention.

“Nice recovery, there.” He swats Zayn’s hand away - he’s gotten closer, somehow, the light all tangled up in his eyelashes as he blinks. It makes it hard to swallow.

“Avocado toast it is. What’ll Freddie have?”

The little lad’s still splashing away, scooping water with the spoons Louis fetched him from the jug of utensils on the corner, sipping from his cup of juice. He’s good for a while, even if the floor is getting soaked. Zayn doesn’t seem to mind, leaned back up against the island next to Louis, watching Freddie play.

Louis shrugs. “He wouldn’t say no to chicken noodle soup, I’m sure. It’s been a whole twenty-four hours since he had it.”

“I got like six cans of it, bro. Plus the other stuff you put on the list.” Zayn shifts and the edge of his sleeve brushes against Louis’ arm, making the hairs stand up.

“You got it? All of it?” Out of nowhere, there’s a telltale prickling at the back of his eyes. Jesus christ.

Zayn shrugs, a soft cotton rustle sweeping up and down his arm. “You sent it, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he gets out, before his throat closes up.

His eyes get hot and he’s always been an easy crier, but this is ridiculous, getting weepy in the kitchen over cheap chicken noodle soup and goldfish crackers and all the other stupid shit on that list he sent. Applesauce. Frozen vegetables. Granola bars. There’s no good way to recover, but he’s not about to wipe his fucking eyes and make it obvious.

Zayn rescues him, and it’s just that easy: he slings his free arm over Louis’ shoulder and natters on.

“Kayla ordered it, anyway.” Zayn takes a swig of his beer and stares straight ahead, arm tightening briefly. “You know I’m no good at that stuff. She’s got an app where you just put in what you want and then it’s ready. Takeaway groceries, like.”

Louis sucks in a breath, deep as he can. It’s shaky but goes in and out all right; the tightness in his throat starts to ease. He’s warm all over, and it’s not just the day’s lingering heat. Zayn’s pressed along his side, arm casual around his neck, giving him time - to calm down, to shake it off, to find the words stuck somewhere inside him. Freddie dunks the soap bottle into the sink, shrieks with victory.

“Dead useful, isn’t it? Use it meself when I’m in the city,” he manages.

It’s just - he just needs to relax, is all. What would Niall tell him? Something Irish and incomprehensible, wound up like a bollygog, whatsit.

Zayn gives him one last squeeze, then hip-checks him off the counter. “Get out of the way so I can actually make us something. Unless you’re going to help?”

“Eh.” He settles on the other side of the island, plays with his beer bottle. “You’re better off on your own, maybe.”

“Nah. Always better with you here.” Zayn winks at him. It crawls all the way through the kitchen, settles somewhere in the middle of his body, hot and sharp. “Even if you’re useless.”

Freddie gets his third wind after dinner, like food is a direct conduit to producing more energy; weird how that inverts as you get older.

Louis needs that tea, now. The beer’s sinking in, making him tired. He looks speculatively at Zayn, who’s gathering the plates from the table. He’s gotten on well enough with Freddie so far.

“I’ll pay you fifty quid if you chase after Freddie while I clean up the dishes.”

Zayn’s eyebrows might lift right off his head, he whips around so fast. Crossing the kitchen, he lays his hand on Louis’ forehead, face dipping in close.

“Sure you’re feeling all right, mate?”

“Chasing after him is harder than you think.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows; _how hard can it be_? “Think I can manage. Come on, Pinecone, let’s go play.”

“I’m not Pinecone anymore.” Freddie’s very matter-of-fact, perched on his kitchen stool. “My name is Chickie.”

Louis listens from the kitchen while they fuck off. Freddie’s running laps around the house, sounds like, cheeping relentlessly the while. He checks his phone: nothing urgent, though he’s a few messages to respond to later. Through the window, he can see the darkening back porch, the raised garden beds in various states of growth.

The sink is heaped with soap bubbles when he starts washing; it’s easy, routine. Gives his hands something to do. They’ve been here four hours, though it seems like four days. And he wasn’t expecting it, didn’t...Didn’t expect Zayn to be so easy, letting them drop into his life.

Louis wasn’t expecting to want him again, either - although that’s easy, too; it always has been, even if it’s not exactly convenient. Never was convenient, the times it crept over them, those moments in-between or on break from girlfriends. On the bus, the sound of tires on the road at two a.m., wanting Zayn. In hotel rooms, across the world; in the sticky heat, the cold dry air con, wanting Zayn. In clubs, in alleys behind clubs, wanting Zayn. He should’ve known better, than to think it would just disappear. He did know better, told Niall so.

Laughter floats in from the front of the house, Freddie’s wild giggles cut by Zayn’s low undercurrent. It’s fully dark now; back in LA, they’d just be starting dinner time. On this coast, he’s got to try to wrangle Freddie into bed, three hours earlier than usual.

He follows the laughter to the sitting room. They’ve made a pile of pillows from the sofa and throw blankets, and they’re playing something complex where Zayn’s both the mama chicken and the farmer, and Freddie’s the chick. He watches them in the doorway for a stretch.

“Hey, Freddie. Time for bed, buddy.”

Freddie settles further into the cushion pile. “One more minute.”

The saga begins. Getting Freddie to bed under normal circumstances is hard enough. “All right. One more minute. That’s it, though.”

“Okay, Daddy.” He snuggles back into the blankets, eyes heavy. Maybe it won’t be as tough as Louis thinks. “Can I sleep in my nest tonight?”

“Not tonight, lad. We’ve got a nice comfy bed for you upstairs, remember?” He’s got an idea, though. “Could do your pjs and book down here, if you like.”

That ends up being the winning solution. Freddie’s nest is pretty comfortable; it’s hard to pry him out of it when storytime is over. But there are teeth to clean and pillows to fluff, and it’s tough for Freddie to settle down the first time he stays somewhere new. Tonight’s no different, and he lays in bed with Freddie until he’s on the cusp of sleep, just to be certain he’s truly settled. It’s nice, cuddling his small warm weight - he doesn’t get to do it that often.

Back downstairs, he finds Zayn hiding in the movie room. The house is cooling off, spring wind sneaking through the open windows.

“All good?” Zayn asks.

Louis brandishes the baby monitor in his hand. It’s no fancy video monitor, not like Briana has, but it’s got a two-way intercom. “He still doesn’t think he can get out of bed by himself. We’re trying to keep that going for as long as possible.”

“Solid plan.” He gets up from the sofa and stretches his back, making his t-shirt ride up. Louis catches himself staring at his stomach, the sliver of bare skin there. He looks away before Zayn notices; he’s got to get a hold of himself.

Zayn wanders closer, to where Louis’ still hovering near the doorway. “Want to smoke?”

“Nah, it’s not for me anymore. Not when I’ve got Freddie, anyway.”

Zayn nods, like it’s no big deal. “Do you mind if I do? Smoke, I mean.”

“I’ll just smoke cigarettes, won’t I?”

Out on the back porch, the day’s lingering heat is laced with the cold edge of night. It’s not quite cool enough for a sweatshirt, but he wouldn’t mind one. With the sun fully down, it’s incredible how dark it is. The zombie apocalypse could start right here, shambling in from the shadows, and no one would ever know. The night is full of bug songs, mostly, and a bird or two, plus Zayn’s quiet rustling as he gets the joint sorted.

The flare of the lighter is piercingly bright. He passes the lighter to Zayn, by the end, so their fingers don’t brush. Then he’s wrapped in the smell of weed, thick and sweet and scratchy, deja vu strong enough to drown in. He brings himself back to here and now with an effort.

There’s the farm, sleeping and quiet.

There’s his hand, wrapped around a cigarette.

There’s Zayn’s voice, low in his ear, lazy accent like an ache in his heart. “Freddie’s cute.”

“Sometimes. I mean, yeah, of course he is. Even when he’s being a shit.”

Zayn shifts, glancing at him. “Thanks for coming. I’m glad you did, both of you.”

Polite interchange, he can handle this. “Thanks for having us. It’s nice out here, even if you’re not wearing dungarees. I can manage the disappointment.”

“Bet you’d wear dungarees, if Adidas made them.”

“Maybe,” Louis concedes. “Gosha Rubchinskiy, though…”

Zayn’s laugh spills out into the night. It gets quiet again when his laughter fades. The end of Louis’ cigarette makes orange trails in the air.

“All right?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah. Quiet out here, innit.” He exhales, long and slow.

“It is that. It’s like. Part of what I like about it, the quiet. The space. I spent -” he stops to take a hit. “I spent so long feeling bad. You get - you know. It took some time to figure out the things that make me feel good. Or better, at least.”

Louis can relate to that, finding moments of good in all of the shit that’s been handed to him. Feels like all he’s done, the past few years. He’s not sure what he should say, but Zayn seems to be waiting for him, leaned up against the porch rail, looking out into the dark.

“And that’s...here?”

Zayn nods. “Part of it, anyway.”

Louis reaches out to put his hand on the back of Zayn's neck. It’s an infraction, but he permits himself the lapse. Zayn pushes into his touch, so Louis gives him a squeeze before dropping his hand.

“Then I’m glad. Lot of fucking work though, isn’t it?”

Zayn sounds uncertain, for the first time all day. “I love it here, no matter what. But…” He exhales, takes his time to find the words. “You know how it is.” His voice is expressionless in the dark, but his face isn’t: mouth twisted, hand cupping the last of his joint, spark sliding up his palm and down his wrist, lighting him orange.

Louis drops his cigarette into the ash can. “I suppose I do.”

“It’s all right, though.”

Even the bugs have quieted down. Apart from the fan buzzing over Freddie’s monitor, there’s no other noise. The wind kicks up, and gooseflesh breaks out all over Louis’ arms.

Zayn shifts enough to flick the stub of his own joint into the ash can. “Want to go in? Watch a movie or something?”

“Yeah. Sure, yeah.”

Movies are good. Except the part where they’re sitting together on a couch, in a dark room. Louis’ got a beer in hand, and he’s not thinking about anything - not Zayn’s leg, close enough that he can pretend to feel its warmth. Not Zayn shifting restlessly as he gets comfortable, until there’s almost no space between them at all, tactile as ever when he’s stoned. Not how it reminds him of the first time something happened between them, drunk on a hotel couch in Brazil. Louis’ just watching X-Men, very proper, hands to himself, thank you very much.

Storm and Cyclops are showing up to save Rogue, Halle Barry’s eyes glazed white on the screen. God, they used to love her.

“Still gonna marry her,” Zayn murmurs, right in his ear.

“She’s your mum’s age.”

Zayn flicks the side of his face. “Nothing’s gonna get in the way of my love, Louis. Age is just a culturally assigned measuring stick, you know.”

Cheeky. “Been talking with Liam, then?”

Zayn snorts. “Not recently, but more power to him.”

He feels bad taking the piss when Liam’s not even there - it’s good to see him doing his thing, being happy; it’s all he wants for his boys, when it comes down to it. God knows they had to grow up fast, maybe they’re older than their years.

“Shut up,” he says, instead. “I’m trying to watch this.”

Rogue’s developing crush on Bobby tugs at his heart a little more than he expected, despite how many times he’s seen the film. He knows what it’s like to want what you want, even if you think you don’t deserve it.

Things progress. The senator’s just dissolved into a puddle at headquarters when Louis’ eyes start getting sandy. One of them shifts in - either him or Zayn, doesn’t matter. But Zayn’s close enough to lean on, and Louis is angled that way already, and decisions you make when you’re sleepy can always be explained away in the morning.

Louis wakes up to darkness, and hands peeling him up off the sofa.

“Stop,” he protests, trying to swat the hands away.

“Get up, you lump.” The hands belong to Zayn, turns out. He’s in Zayn’s house, on Zayn’s couch, watching Zayn’s movie. It’s fucked.

Zayn hauls him up, too fast to process, and Louis stumbles right into him. Not hard, but enough. Zayn catches him with a low chuckle, a puff of air against his cheek.

“Wake up.”

He’s being spun around, steered through the sitting room with an arm around his back. They’re almost to the stairs by the time his brain catches up. Zayn’s maneuvering him carefully, nudging him up the stairs, hands warm on the side of Louis’ waist, against the small of his back. He squeezes Louis’ hips as they reach the top, and Louis shivers.

“Cold?” Zayn asks, pushing him up the last step. “Poor baby.” He doesn’t sound sympathetic in the slightest.

“Knobend,” Louis yawns. “Thanks for the assist.”

They’re standing in the hallway, at the top of the stairs. He waits for it to be awkward. Maybe he’s too tired for that; maybe they both are. He wants to sag against the wall, lie down on the floor - though there’s no rug here, it won’t be that comfortable. He wants to sag against Zayn, who shuffles a step closer, eyes heavy himself, and sways toward him. Not quite a lean, not far enough that Louis has to do anything about it - which is good, since he’s frozen.

“Uh,” he gets out.

Zayn just laughs and shoves him gently. It gets him going again, walking down the hall to his room.

“Good night.”

“‘Night,” Louis tosses back, over his shoulder.

He manages to change into his sleep pants and crawl under the blankets. He just needs some sleep, is all. His defenses are low. Could happen to anyone. And today was easy, wasn’t it? Maybe tomorrow will be easy, too.

 

There’s nothing like having a kid about to piss their pants to get you out of bed in the morning. It’s effective, but indecently early in LA-time when Freddie shouts him awake.

Wee accomplished, he lugs Freddie downstairs and sets him up with his iPad on the sofa. He’s like his dad when he wakes up - the less said for the first thirty minutes, the better. It works for them.

Morning’s nice in the kitchen, lovely soft light streaming in through the windows. There’s coffee already in the pot, thank god. He needs something stronger than tea to cut through the jet lag. The coffee’s still vaguely warm; how long has Zayn been up? It’s unnatural. He’s well beyond caring about the temperature of his coffee, as long as it makes it into his mouth.

Freddie’s going to want something to eat, sooner rather than later. Bit weird, digging through someone else’s kitchen cabinets - but Zayn did say -

The distinctive sound of the screen door slamming on the back porch makes him jump, a hair away from cracking his head on the cabinet door. He grabs a box of whatever cereal is at hand and manages to turn around just as Zayn makes it through the door.

He’s obviously been at it for a while, fully dressed and a little sweaty. “‘Morning.”

It’s too fucking early for this. Zayn’s stupid crinkly smile is going to be the death of him, it makes his chest hurt. He needs the barrier of caffeine and space between them. Now.

“Morning,” he manages, through a massive smile of his own. When did that happen, his bleeding traitor face. He gropes around inside for some of that old, familiar resentment - a protection, he needs it.

Zayn steps closer and the hairs on Louis’ body stand up; so much for sleep curing his ills. He leans into Louis to grab a different box of cereal from the cabinet, reaching right into his space.

“Got a bowl?” Louis asks, feebly. “Plastic, preferably?”

Zayn moves away to get the bowl, and he can breathe again.

“How long have you been up?”

“Long enough,” Zayn mutters, pouring a bowl of cereal for himself. “There’s work to do, you know.”

“You do it all yourself?” It’s implausible, as capable as Zayn seems, him handling all of this alone.

Zayn follows him out of the kitchen, spooning cereal into his mouth while he walks. It’s cuter than it should be. “Nah. John comes most days, he’s the only help I have. I gave him a few days off, so.” He plops down on the sofa next to Freddie, keeps talking around his breakfast. “I can pick up the slack for a little - mostly feeding and watering, isn’t it? I’ll take a nap later, probably.”

Freddie perks up at the cereal. “Thanks, Dad.” He looks over at Zayn. “These are brains,” he says, holding up a Cheerio. “Do you want to try one?”

“Alright.” Zayn pops one in his mouth. “Crunchy, my favorite kind. Oi, it’s Transformers. Cool.” He leans over to look at Freddie’s iPad.

Zayn’s got a project for them after breakfast, so they get dressed and head outside at his instruction. It’s a warm morning, not hot yet though it could lean that way later on. The birds sound very excited to be alive. He can appreciate that. The caffeine working its way through his system might help get him there, himself.

There’s a plastic sack hanging from Zayn’s arm when he meets them by the porch.

“Can we see the chicks again?” Freddie asks, tugging on his hand.

“Soon, buddy,” Louis promises. “Zayn’s got a job for us, first.” Whatever it is, it’s bound to be awful. He’s not meant for farm work.

They end up by a couple long rectangles of earth just past the back porch, framed in by timbers. Louis recognizes them from the pictures Zayn posted last year. It’s raised garden beds - one planted already, tender green stems lifted up in the sunny morning. The other one isn’t planted, or doesn’t seem to be. He knows what’s in the bag, all of a sudden.

Shit. It’s going to be dirty. Freddie’ll love it, though he’ll be scrubbing out of his fingernails for a week.

Zayn dumps the bag out on the ground. Seed packets spill out, neat paper rectangles printed with their colorful pictures.

“What are those?” Freddie asks, kneeling next to the pile. He gives one a shake, and the seeds inside rattle like a maraca.

Zayn holds up one of the packets. It’s peas. “Look, it’s corn.”

Freddie stares at him. “That’s not corn. It’s peas.”

“You’re right.” He throws the seeds on the ground, grabs another envelope. It’s something green and leafy; lettuce probably. “Do you want to plant these carrots?”

Freddie laughs this time, catching on. “That’s not carrots, it’s lettuce!”

“You’re right again. I’m really bad at this.”

“You are,” Freddie agrees. “Super bad.”

“Want to help me plant?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Zayn fetches a couple of buckets and a few spades, whatever those tiny shovels are that just fit in your hand. Hand-shovels. Minis. Whatever. He hands Freddie one of the buckets, while Louis looks on.

“This is for worms, mate, okay? If you see one, we’ve got to rescue it.”

“Worm rescue squad,” Freddie nods, very serious.

Zayn hands Louis a trowel, too. He’s careful to have no expression on his face, just takes the shovel in his hand. It doesn’t matter; Zayn’s got his number.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this.” He slaps Louis on the arm.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Louis says primly.

Freddie’s at attention as Zayn walks them through the process: digging a line in the dirt with the hand-shovel, dropping the seeds in, covering them up.

“Use your hands to cover them,” Zayn says, gently smoothing over his row with a bare hand. “That way they don’t get buried too deep.”

Freddie spares him a glance, like he’s just remembered that Louis is there. “Dad doesn’t get dirty.”

Zayn looks him up and down, slow. It’s a cheap move. “Maybe he doesn’t anymore. But I’m sure he’ll do fine.”

They get to work. Kneeling on the ground, the early sun is already hot on the back of his neck. The dirt smells good, oddly, blackish-brown, slightly damp as he scrapes the point of his shovel through it. Zayn tosses a packet of seeds at him, hitting him in the back.

“Oi.” He flips it over. It’s some kind of bean, crescent-shaped and purple.

“Left you the easy ones.”

He and Zayn start at opposite ends of the garden. Louis makes the rows in the dirt, and Freddie drops in the seeds. The rows are wonky and the seeds are too close together, but Zayn’s too far away to notice.

They’re on their second packet when they find the first worm.

“Dad, look - it’s a wormy!” Freddie goes to pick it up.

“Gentle, gentle.” Louis helps him scoop it out of the dirt and drops it on his little palm. It curls there, pink and brown, strangely delicate.

Freddie scrambles over to show it to Zayn, who’s hanging lines of string for the peas and beans. “Look at the wormy I found.”

Zayn smiles and drops the twine. “Yeah, bro. Good job. Let’s get the bucket.”

Louis stops planting to watch. It’s funny to see Zayn with a kid - his kid - though he doesn’t know why. He’s got that trick of talking to Freddie like a grown up; he’s good at it. Together, they scoop some dirt out of the garden into the pail, and Freddie drops the worm in.

Freddie brings the bucket back over. “He’s lonely.”

“Maybe we’ll find more,” Louis says.

They do find more - lots more, once Freddie makes it his mission to dig in the unplanted section to search. It’s all right. Planting a garden with a four-year-old is haphazard at best. Louis does a little better once Freddie is occupied and no longer helping, but it’s not a very good showing. He gets a couple of mostly-straight lines planted - purple beans, yellow beans, green beans, basil. Freddie settles in the shade to play with his worms, although “play” mostly means dumping out the bucket and watching them wriggle around in the heap of dirt.

Louis stands up, stretching out his back. Zayn’s done with his end already, of course, beautiful straight twine and neatly-labeled rows. He wanders down Louis’ way, bumps up against him.

“Not too bad. Make a farmer of you yet.” He’s standing too close, again.

“Not likely,” Louis grunts. His hands are filthy. It’ll be time for second breakfast soon, or Freddie will get cranky.

Zayn shakes the last seed packets. Louis groans. It feels like atonement for crimes he never committed, or committed so long ago they shouldn’t count anymore. What’s the statute of limitations on holding a grudge? On wanting someone to hurt the way they hurt you?

“It’s easy, mate, just carrots. Watch.” Zayn walks them to the last third of the garden, the only unplanted section left, and starts sprinkling the seeds on top of the soil. No digging, no covering, no lines, no strings. It’s bullshit.

Louis looks at his dirty knees and hands. “What the fuck, you couldn’t have started me with those?”

Zayn rolls his eyes and puts his arm around Louis. He smells a little like detergent and a little like sweat, and it makes Louis dizzy, although it’s likely just sun stroke.

He grabs a packet out of Zayn’s hands and tears it open. The carrot seeds are tiny in comparison to the beans. It’s hard to believe they’ll grow into anything, that the wind won’t just carry them away. He scatters the seeds as evenly as he can over the dirt - spitefully, maybe, but he does it.

“You better mail me some of these, when they’re ready. Didn’t do all this work for you to enjoy the fruits of my labor. Or vegetables.”

“Then you’ll just have to come back, won’t you?”

That’s a thought he can’t chase right now, _coming back_ , so he puts his energy toward sorting Freddie, who’s gotten completely filthy. Zayn helps Freddie find a spot in the garden for his worms, though he’s reluctant to release them back.

“Don’t worry,” Zayn reassures him. “They’ll be really happy here. Let’s water the seeds, yeah?”

There’s nothing Freddie loves more than the garden hose, in Louis’ experience - not even raccoons.

Zayn and Freddie water the garden while Louis fetches a snack, foraging in Zayn’s cabinets for the second time that day. Granola bars located, he heads back outside.

Freddie’s still at it, drops hanging in the air like tiny jewels. It’s a scene he wishes he could cut out and paste on the inside of his chest: Freddie’s happy face, the water arching through the air, Zayn hovering just behind him, mid-laugh.

“The seeds are really thirsty,” Freddie says, turning the hose in a different direction as Louis approaches. He narrowly avoids getting sprayed, dodging out of the way just in time. “I’m giving them a nice cold drink.”

“You’re doing brilliant, buddy.” Louis holds up the bowl with the snack in it. “Brought you a granola bar.”

“I’m busy with my work. I’ll eat it later.”

Zayn reads the look on his face and intercedes before he can respond. “We don’t want to give them too much to drink. It’s supposed to rain today.” Zayn glances up at the sky. “Soon, actually.”

The sky is almost completely clear, one wispy white cloud just past the tree line. There’s no way it’s going to rain.

Zayn shrugs. “It’s on the forecast.”

Freddie surrenders the hose at last, settling back in his shady spot to eat, while Zayn hangs netting ‘round the garden plot.

“What’s that about?” It’s nice in the shade, though the ground’s a bit lumpy.

“Keeps the chipmunks out of the seeds until they’re sprouted,” Zayn explains. “Lost my whole first crop last year.”

“Surprised you made it through the winter.” His phone buzzes in his pocket; he ignores it in favor of watching Zayn give him the finger.

It’s late morning by the time they make it to the barn to visit the chicks. Freddie settles in like an old pro, scattering feed on the barn floor while the chicks huddle around him.

Louis’ phone buzzes again. He’s got a series of messages from Michelle, trying to iron out the final details for next week’s radio stops. It’s all east coast stuff: Elvis Duran, Gina Crash, Bay Ragni. He might as well stay out here, if all he’s going to do is fly back to LA and turn around two days later.

Radio’s not always his favorite. It’s hard to watch his mouth on-air, and it’s easy to create a bad sound bite or two. But it’s necessary. The hosts he’s sitting with are generally lovely and have known him for a long time; they’ve all been supporting the album and the tour.

 **What about off-limits?** Michelle asks. **Any updates to the current list?**

She’s good at her job, though he’s still getting to know her. He’s tapping out a reply when Zayn comes closer.

“Alright?” Zayn nudges him with an elbow.

He slips his phone back in his pocket. “Yeah, just doing some radio with the shows next week. They want an updated list, you know, what’s okay, what’s -”

“Forbidden,” Zayn interjects, smile twisting his mouth. “Am I still on it?”

“Never were, bro.” Louis says. “Wish you would have been, probably wouldn’t have -” he swallows, at the tipping point of what’s too much. Things have been good between them, though, even the damaged parts. “Wouldn’t have pissed me off as much. It’s just the normal stuff. Pretty much an open book otherwise, aren’t I?”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Zayn says, looking down. He scuffs his toe against the wide plank floor. “Not like you used to be, I mean.”

The crack of thunder drags them out of the conversation.

“Here it comes,” Zayn says, hustling to put the lid on the chicken feed.

“Oi, Fredd-o. We’ve got to go in. It’s gonna rain, buddy.”

Freddie hurries, for once in his life. It’s dark by the time they get out of the barn, the weird half-light of the sun blotted out by clouds. The sky is a mass of rolling dark; they just make it in when the first fat raindrops start to fall.

“Told you.” Zayn toes off his shoes on the back porch.

They sit on the porch chairs for a while, watching the rain sheet down, Freddie pointing out each flash of lightning in the distance.

By lunchtime, everyone is dragging. Zayn looks about to fall asleep mid-chew over his sandwich. Freddie’s eating the same as Zayn, by special request, and doesn’t look much different. It’s distressingly charming.

He doesn’t have to wrangle Freddie at all for nap time, which is ace. Zayn trudges up the stairs behind them and heads into his own room. Louis definitely doesn’t think about him laid out on the sheets - or twisted in the sheets, topless and rumpled - it’s just exhaustion and jet lag. It could happen to anyone.

Since everyone else is napping, Louis naps, too. Or at least he lays in bed, going through his phone. He gets through a couple of emails about next week - finalizing flight plans, lunch dates, dinner dates. _Does he want to meet up with Ed Sheeran?_ No, not really. Bebe’s in town, though, she wants to catch up. Could do, could do.

He texts her back: **Miss your dumb face. Let’s do it.**

He’s tired but restless, still too wired to sleep. It’s 10 am in LA, at least Niall will be up.

 **SOS** , he sends.

 _VAAAS HAPPNING ?_ Niall texts back

**Fuck you**

_You big baby_ . _Call me_

 **Can’t. Don’t want Zayn to hear.** It’s an old house, his paranoia is well-founded; paper-thin walls, and that.

_Oh my god this is like a teen movie ._

_Hard 2 get u sorted thru text mate_

**Just pray for me**

Louis’ getting sleepy, now, the steady pattern of rain on the roof lulling him. Outside, the streaky blur of the trees is hypnotic - it’s like being a kid again, looking out his own bedroom window.

He wakes up to chatter over the monitor. Freddie’s singing something to his stuffies, it’s hard to make out. The room is evening-dark, still, he’s surprised Freddie woke up at all. But he _is_ awake, so Louis forces himself to sit up. His phone tumbles into his lap. There are two more texts from Niall, before he gave up.

_You don’t need prayers , you need pipe_

_zayn’s pipe to be specific_

He deletes them. It’s hard to get out of bed, but Freddie won’t screw around forever. Best get him situated before he gets too noisy.

Zayn surfaces soon after they do, clumsy on the stairs like he’s still half-asleep. It’s still raining, the thorough kind that seems like it’s never going to stop.

It’s a low-key afternoon. Zayn puts on Big Hero 6, and Freddie manages almost the whole movie before he gets squirrely. They don’t make it out of the house again until after dinner, when the rain finally lets up.

Outside, the air is thick with humidity, almost oppressive - if it were hotter, it’d be right miserable. Hopefully it will cool off overnight.

Zayn checks the animals while Louis plays with Freddie. The backyard is dotted with puddles of varying sizes: round and oblong, deep and small. Even if there was a way to keep Freddie out of the muddy water, it wouldn’t be fair to; live while you’re young and all.

Louis looks at what Freddie’s wearing and groans. “Come here,” he says. He strips Freddie down to his pants. There’s nothing to do for his shoes, they’ll just have to be washed when he’s done.

Freddie yells and beelines for a puddle. “I’m a bomb,” he shouts, jumping up and down. “Super mud blast - get out of the way!”

The water can’t be that warm, but Freddie doesn’t mind. He moves from puddle to puddle, streaked with mud, while Louis watches. Zayn ambles over eventually, evening chores complete. John’s back tomorrow, based on what Zayn said before, so he’ll be off the hook a bit for the next two days. Until they’re gone, anyway.

“Good thing there’s a bath upstairs,” Zayn says, lighting a cigarette.

Louis’ fingers twitch, he pulls out his own pack of smokes. “Got the hose, otherwise.” He’s done it before, when Freddie makes a mess of himself on a hot day. It’s not like Freddie minds, one way or the other: clean is clean.

There’s plenty of daylight left, now that the clouds have cleared out. The sky’s a beautiful deep ache of blue, darkening at the edges. It’s one of those moments that seems like he could live in it forever; a scene from a movie, happening to someone else. Zayn at his side, his familiar shape and smell, familiar texture stamped onto his heart. Freddie splashing in the puddles like he’s got to empty them all or the world will end.

“Uncle Zayn, come play with me,” Freddie calls, halfway across the yard.

Zayn shakes his head. “Too muddy for me. Come see the horses, they look like you.”

“Okay.” Freddie agrees, scampering over, covered in dirty rivulets.

Zayn is telling the truth. Cool and Rapidash trot towards the fence when they approach, and as they get closer it’s clear that they’re both completely filthy.

“They are like me!” Freddie laughs. “How’d they get so muddy?”

“They go inside for the rain, most of the time - except when they don’t. Cool loves rolling in the mud, dunno why - he’s always been that way. Just like it, don’t you?” Zayn croons, as Cool sidles up to him. “It’s pointless to get them cleaned up until later. It’ll be a chore, though.”

Cool butts his head against Zayn, streaking mud over the front of his shirt. “You wanker,” Zayn laughs, pushing his head away. “Proper filthy now.” He looks down at his shirt, smeared with mud from collar to navel.

Cool strolls away, oblivious. They get to watch as he kneels in the muddy spot, then lays down. It’s a laborious process for a horse. Once he’s all the way down, he wriggles ecstatically, rolling from one side to the other. It’s Rap’s turn, afterwards.

Freddie thinks it’s hilarious. “Oh my god,” he says. “That’s so crazy.” He sounds just like Briana, California accent broad over his vowels.

“Language, Freddie,” Louis reminds him. “We’ve talked about this.”

He shouldn’t be unprepared for what happens next. But that’s the thing about parenting - it’s always the fifteen seconds afterwards, when you’re yelling and you should have known better, since the thing that just happened was inevitable, in character. Because Freddie’s run over to the nearest puddle and laid down in it, almost completely submerged as he rolls around, and mud is absolutely everywhere - in his hair, on his face, probably in his teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He can’t decide if he’s going to shout or not; if he should laugh it off or intervene. He looks over at Zayn, a little helplessly.

Zayn grins and shrugs, picking at the mud on his shirt. He pulls the wet fabric away from his chest. “Don’t know any better than you, babes. He seems like he’s having fun, though.”

In the end, Louis gets his phone out and takes a picture of Freddie kneeling in the puddle, water making tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. Though it’s a bit like taking his life in his hands, he sends it to Bria. She shouldn’t be too mad, since she’s not going to have to clean up the mess.

 **OMFG** , she sends back in a minute. **Facetime later? Missing my raccoony**

 _All right, will call after bath time_ , he taps out.

Speaking of which. “One more minute, buddy,” he calls. “Then we need to go in for a bath.” The hose probably isn’t sufficient tonight, given the absolute disaster.

Louis turns back to Zayn, and the comment he was about to make dies in his mouth. Zayn’s taken off his top. It’s balled up in his hands, and he’s using it to wipe off his front where some of the water soaked through. The early evening light warms him all over, tracing the ink that traces his skin. There’s so much skin. Louis swallows hard, forcing his eyes away.

“I’m cold,” Freddie says, and then it’s time to go in.

Bath time is pretty wild. It’s hard to get Freddie into anything hotter than lukewarm water under any circumstances, and Louis makes him shower off most of the mud before he gets in the bath. He cries when the water’s too hot; screams when it sprays over his face.

“You just had your whole face in a mud puddle,” Louis says, drying off his face with a flannel. “Why are you crying about a little water?”

“I hate the shower.”

Freddie settles down once Louis stops the drain and it’s proper bath time. Zayn lets them alone while Freddie splashes. It’s good, Louis needs the space right now, the ability to breathe again. Hopefully he’s off finding a clean shirt. Louis can’t be responsible for his actions if he’s going to walk around topless. It’s too much skin, lovely soft brown skin; it would happen to anyone.

After bath, Louis whisks Freddie into pajamas and into his bedroom with minimal protest. “Hey, buddy, want to call your mum?”

“Yes! Yes!” Freddie says. “Can we do a video on your phone?”

Louis zones out a bit while Briana and Freddie chat about the farm. Freddie’s sense of time is not the best yet, and Louis is always keen to hear him try to recount the day. They ring off after a while, Briana’s puckered kissy-face hanging pixelated on the screen for a few seconds. He tries to get a screenshot, but the moment’s gone.

“Story, time, Freddie. What do you want tonight?” Louis hasn’t packed many books, but Freddie doesn’t usually mind reading the same things for a few days.

Freddie crawls down off the bed and rummages through his case, coming back with his selection. “This one,” he says. “But I want Uncle Zayn to read it to me.”

“Freddie -” Louis starts.

“Please?” He asks, all wide eyes and a wider smile. Louis is a goner for that look, and Freddie knows it.

Louis finds Zayn in the kitchen, decently covered, thank christ, and drinking a cup of tea, though it’s still sticky as hell.

It’s too hot for hot tea, probably. But. “Thanks, I’d love one,” Louis says.

“Shut up, it’s just over there. Don’t get sensitive.” Zayn waves to another cup brewing on the counter.

“Thank you.” He’s sincere, this time. “Um. Freddie’s requested you for story time.” Zayn raises his eyebrows. Shit, maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he hates reading children’s books, maybe he was planning something else - “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“‘Course I will.” Zayn sets his mug down on the counter. “Do I have to do weird voices? I’m not as good at that.”

“Eh, neither am I, to be fair. He’s got Niall for voices, doesn’t he.”

“What are we waiting for, then?” Zayn shoves him out of the kitchen, fingers like brands on Louis’ skin; he’s gonna itch right out of it, burn up like rocket fuel. He needs to settle down. It’s just - Zayn’s hands are hot from the tea. It would happen to anyone.

Freddie’s perched expectantly on the bed when they get back to his room. “Sit here,” he says, patting the empty spot on the bed.

Zayn settles in, easy as you please, and Freddie hands him the book. “Vegetables in Underwear,” he reads. “Sick.”

Freddie’s not completely gotten the knack of whispering, and he’s loud when he leans into Zayn’s ear. “You can see the potato’s butt crack.”

“Language, Freddie.” Louis’ attempt is so feeble, even he can recognize it.

Freddie and Zayn are laughing too hard to hear him. Zayn gamely opens the book, and Freddie tucks himself into his shoulder, completely trusting.

The picture they make rolls over Louis like a steam engine. He’s so bleeding soft, fighting back the prickling in his eyes once again. At least no one will notice this time, caught up like they are in the stupid story. He thumbs open the camera app, fast enough to snap a picture before they cotton on.

It’s a short book, which is probably better for his heart, half-mangled as it is. Zayn goes back downstairs afterwards, excused from duty. Freddie snuggles into the pillow, playing quietly with Goke as Louis turns on the fan, shuts off the light.

“Good night, Freddie. Love you. I’ll see you in the morning -”

“- at wake-up time,” Freddie parrots.

Zayn’s out on the back porch, smoking. Just cigarettes, tonight, poised against the porch rail like he’s waiting for something to walk out of the muggy night. A breeze, maybe.

“Going to be hot tomorrow,” Zayn says, like he can read Louis’ mind.

“It’s hot right now.” Over the monitor, he catches a strand of soft, off-key singing. He crosses over to Zayn and sets it on the porch rail. “Listen. Think we’re going to get an episode of the Freddie Show.”

It’s quiet for a beat, three beats. Then he hears it again, Freddie singing his made-up song: _Big hero six, when I lay under my pillow.... Big hero six._

“Doesn’t make any sense, does it?” He shakes his head at Zayn.

Zayn tosses his cigarette butt in the can. “Don’t think it needs to, bro. Have you listened to Girl Almighty?”

Louis chokes out a laugh. Can he laugh about that album, and what came after? It’s dangerous territory. “Point taken. It’s still a bop, though.”

“Touché.”

They smoke in silence for a few minutes, watching the darkening sky. It’s not full night quite yet, getting Freddie in bed so early was a minor miracle. They’ve a whole fucking night to kill; it sends a little ripple up Louis’ spine, how much time they have. Freddie’s chattering has finally died down. It’s so much easier at this age than it would have been even a year ago. Maybe the same is true for him - these past few days have gone better than hoped.

Zayn nudges him with an elbow, breaking his train of thought. “Wanna head in?” he asks, tilting his head toward the door.

“Yeah, alright.”

Back in the house, Zayn grabs a few lagers out of the fridge. “What do you want to do?” he asks, handing over one of the bottles.

“What are my options?”

“Dunno, like. We could play video games, paint our nails.” Zayn smiles and pokes Louis in the arm. “Give each other tattoos.”

“You’ve got a tattoo gun here?” It shouldn’t be a surprise. He looks around the kitchen - it is bright enough, they probably wouldn’t botch anything too badly.

“What else are you supposed to do on a farm after dark? Besides wait for the zombie apocalypse, I mean.”

Louis spares half a second to think about it: the hot sting of the tattoo gun, the way Zayn looks when he’s concentrating like that, the shaky loose feeling Louis gets afterwards. Common sense or self-preservation wins him over - it’s a pity.

“Could do video games. Don’t take it wrong, lad, but I need more than a beer to go under the needle with you.”

Zayn sticks out his tongue. “Weak. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Dried up,” Louis says. “Old. Like me.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh. He’s a sight: hair fluffy with humidity, tired eyes. There’s a hole in the collar of his old Pink Floyd t-shirt that Louis could probably get his finger into. They need to move on to the next activity before he tries, because Zayn’s stopped laughing and is looking at him in a way that’s both familiar and frightening, like he’d let Louis do anything he wants right now.

Louis coughs and edges back a step. “Don’t suppose you have air con in the game room?”

“Nah,” Zayn says, straightening up. “Got a fan, though.”

The ceiling fan in question makes the room bearable. The windows are open wide, and a little cross-breeze comes through. Still, Louis sticks to the couch almost as soon as he sits down.

He’s just settling in when there’s a shout from the monitor. “Anybody! Anybody come in Freddie’s room!”

“That’s me.” Louis peels himself off the sofa. “Back in a mo.”

Freddie needs a wee, or at least he pretends he does, based on the tiny trickle that comes out. He’s back in bed in a jiffy, though that doesn’t always last.

Zayn’s oddly quiet when Louis comes back down, drinking his beer on the couch, fiddling with the remote. “What do you want to play?”

“What’re you in the mood for?”

Zayn doesn’t answer, flicking through Steam so slow that he’s probably not searching for anything. Louis looks at him more closely. He’s pinching his bottom lip with his free hand, rolling it between his finger and thumb.

Maybe things have changed over the years, but Louis would know that look anywhere. “Got something on your mind?”

Zayn looks up, surprised. “I don’t, no.”

“You’d be better off if you’re out with it.”

“What’s -” Zayn shakes his head, stops talking with visible effort.

Louis’ not having it. That was the agreement they made a year ago, when he showed up to Zayn’s flat: they would talk. Even if there was no point, even if they didn’t want to. “You know I’m not letting you off the hook. What’s what?”

“The point, any of it.” Zayn waves his hand at the room, encompassing everything. “Just old hurts, like.”

“I’m sorry.” Louis drops down on the couch next to him, close, as if proximity is what’s going to keep them going. They had all the proximity in the world for four years, and it still went to shit. “But I don’t know what for, for once. Tell me.”

“I just. I wish we’d gotten here sooner.” He waves his hand again. “Sucks that I’m just getting to know Freddie now. I mean, I’m glad, you know, but -”

“It does suck. We bodged it,” Louis agrees. He brushes his arm against Zayn’s, hopes it takes some of the sting out of his words. Not all of it, though - some of the sting, Zayn deserves.

Zayn leans into him, and the pressure is steadying. Louis’ been dreading this talk ever since he got on the plane. They’ve had it enough, it never changes - the apologies, the stilted explanations. It worked better once they both started listening, he reckons. Trust grows back slow, Jay told him, once - but it can grow back.

“What are we doing?” Louis asks, staring straight ahead.

Zayn shifts enough to work his free arm around Louis’ neck. “Chilling out. You have to relax, though. Hard to chill out when you’re tense as shit, I think.”

“That’s what Niall keeps telling me.”

“He’s your go-to, now?” Zayn’s trying not to sound jealous, but he can hear it in his voice.

The tension creeps back in. It’d be easier to avoid it or change the subject. But it’s part of why he came here, isn’t it, working it out.

He pulls up his bravery, hard-earned as it’s been. “It’s just. I’m trying to be careful, you know. Don’t want to hurt you again, like. Or meself, to be completely honest. Took a long time to get here.”

“I know.” Zayn tightens his arm for a second. “It’ll never be the way it was.” His voice is low in the dark room, low and honest. It’s what worked for them, that honesty - up until it didn’t, up until Zayn was leaving the band and it felt like he had never been honest with Louis at all. Zayn loosens his arm, shifting to face him more fully. There’s not a lot of space between them, which is maybe what he was aiming for. It makes it impossible for Louis to look away as Zayn keeps talking, eyes endless in the dim light. “It’s all right. We can be something else, right? Like.” He stops, licks his lips. Louis wishes he didn’t track the movement of his tongue. A laugh skitters out of Zayn, quick and nervous. “I don’t know. Something better.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, wishing it didn’t sound so much like a question.

At this angle, their knees knock together. Louis could do something crazy, it’d be easy: could push their mouths together, lick the beer from Zayn’s tongue. Could put his hands on that warm skin. Could push his t-shirt up and off, could -

Louis stands up so fast, he almost jumps off the couch. “I’m for a drink. Need anything while I’m up?”

Zayn just smiles and lifts his mostly-full bottle. “I’m good. Want me to pick something?”

The game. Right. “Sure, go ahead.”

In the kitchen, Louis leans against the wall for a solid minute, thumping his head against the plaster. He can’t stay longer, or Zayn might come looking. Maybe he wants him to, maybe he’d cage Louis in against the wall. Shit. He gets the beer, at least.

“Thought I lost you,” Zayn says, when Louis makes it back.

“No chance.” He sits down again, as close as he dares.

Zayn’s picked a game while he’s been gone, and the opening sequence is so familiar it teleports Louis back seven years without so much as blinking.

“Remember this?” Zayn asks, handing over his controller.

“How could I forget? _Spinning bird kick!_ ”

How _could_ he forget: the long empty spaces of mid-America, quartered by farm fields and small towns. The day they found an old SNES console at a pawn shop in Indiana, complete with a set of original games. They’d played Street Fighter II for ages, every possible combination - but their favorite was Chun-Li v. Chun-Li; they’d get stoned and bounce around the game like grasshoppers, laughing their arses off.

Re-learning the game is a good distraction.

“I’m kicking your arse, bro.” Zayn’s unrepentant, moving in for the win again.

“Fuck you, I’m still getting the hang of it. Don’t get too confident.” He picks E. Honda on the next go-round, just to piss Zayn off.

It works. “Fuck _you_ , mate,” Zayn says, when Louis backs him up into the corner. It’s almost impossible to get away, once E. Honda starts his move.

“Feel my bitch-slap, Z. Accept it into your life.”

He crows and leaps up when he wins the round, taking a victory lap of the room.

“Still a sore winner, I see,” Zayn laughs. “What’s next?”

“Vega versus Vega?” Louis asks.

“I’m ace at Vega, you sure you’re up for it?”

Louis plops back down on the sofa. “Stop dicking around and pick your player.”

It seems like hours later when Louis makes it up to bed, though it’s not that late. At least he didn’t fall asleep on the sofa again. But lying in bed - he can’t fall asleep there, either. The air sticks to him, and he can’t get comfortable, even with the fan’s stiff breeze. It doesn’t get humid like this in LA. He shifts again, finding a cool spot on the sheets.

Almost without his permission, his hand sneaks down into his pants. No big deal, just an evening wank. He strokes himself a few times, experimentally - he’s already hard and leaking at the tip, it’s not going to take long. He shoves his pants down just enough, breath going harsh, remembering Zayn’s chest and stomach, earlier today, the light shaping over him. He gasps, and his hand speeds up; christ, he’s got to be quiet. Zayn’s just down the hall. What if he’d walk in right now? Would he watch, would he join in? It’s enough to push him over the edge. He’s quiet when he comes, legs shaking for a long time after. He cleans himself up, rolls over, falls asleep.

 

He wakes up to Freddie yelling, per usual. He’s filmed with sweat, not per usual. It didn’t cool off overnight; if anything, it’s gotten worse.

In the kitchen, he pours his coffee over a glass of ice. It would have horrified him seven years ago, but…When in America, and all. Zayn walks through the door with someone else, an older man that Louis doesn’t recognize. It must be John, back from his vacation. Zayn’s laughing about something, hair stuck up all over the place.

“You’re up,” Zayn says, with a look of surprise. “This is John. John, Louis.”

“All right,” Louis manages, through his grogginess. He shakes John’s hand, gets a brisk clap on the back in return.

“How’s farm life treating you so far?” John seems ridiculously cheerful for arse o’clock in the morning. He looks a bit like that American football player Harry used to like, salt and pepper hair, square jaw.

Louis looks at Zayn for a long moment. “Good, good.” He takes a drink of coffee. “The owner’s kind of a task-master, but otherwise it’s been great.”

John barks out a laugh and claps him on the back again, before turning back to Zayn. “It’ll be hot enough for the chicks, today,” John says. “You can turn off their heat lamp. Or move them to the outside pen.”

“Yeah, all right,” Zayn agrees. “Almost at full feather now anyway.”

It’s the second time in as many days that Zayn’s been right about the weather. It’s sweltering already, one of those inexplicably hot spring days where it hits eighty degrees by nine a.m. He gets dressed and takes Freddie out into the yard, glad he packed shorts for both of them - but it’s too hot for Freddie to run around more than a little before he’s red-cheeked and asking for a drink. Visiting the animals is a no-go with John around, Louis doesn’t want to get in his way.

They sit on the back porch for a stretch, while Freddie plays with a pile of pebbles. All the money people spend on fancy toys, when all it takes is a heap of gravel and a flattish stick.

Zayn wanders back after not too long, alone. He smiles when he sees them: Louis sprawled on a deck chair, spread out to disperse his body heat. Freddie crouched on the plank porch floor, playing with heaps of stones.

“Hey.” Zayn leans down to pat Louis’ stomach. His muscles tighten reflexively, waiting for Zayn to turn it into a tickle. He doesn’t, just leaves his hand there for a moment. Louis is already sweating, it’s unnecessary.

“‘Morning,” Louis drawls.

Zayn straightens up, once he’s got Louis’ attention. “I’ve got a conference call to take. Don’t want to be rude. But this -” he gestures, encompassing the farm - “only works if I stay in touch.”

“Conference calls, so much fun.”

“It shouldn’t take long. If you want, we can go somewhere after? I know a place Freddie might like.”

Freddie’s still having fun, demolishing and rebuilding his construction site. That won’t last too much longer, in Louis’ experience.

“Yeah, sure. Especially if there’s air con.” A trickle of sweat makes its way down his side, and it’s only getting more humid.

“There’s a lake nearby,” Zayn offers, looking uncertain. “So, no air con. It’s nothing fancy, but there’s a beach. Small, like. Not like he’s used to -”

It’s a brilliant idea. “He can wade, at least. Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, like he’s thrilled. It’s hard not to grin back, hard not to let his stomach leap all over the place.

Which is how he finds himself trapped in a truck with his kid and DJ Zain Malik, who is determined to drive him crazy, no holds barred. Zayn looks impossibly soft, hair curling up from his forehead, and smells impossibly good, even from the passenger seat, and he’s belting out Today’s Top Hits at the top of his lungs while Freddie warbles from the back. The windows are up, at least, in their beautiful cocoon of climate-control, so no one’s hair is blowing in the breeze.

“You can’t call yourself a DJ if you’re just putting on the radio.”

“Can so,” Zayn says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “My car, my rules.”

Today’s Top Hits ends up being a sham and a lie, because the next song in queue slinks out of the speakers, with a guitar riff so familiar he thinks nothing of it for one half of a millisecond.

“It’s uncle Nialler, uncle Nialler,” Freddie shouts, victorious.

Zayn’s cracking up in the driver’s seat, which doesn’t bode well for the passengers. Still, Louis’ got standards to maintain. He retrieves his phone from the drink holder, opening the camera.

“Should we do a sing-song for him? All right, Freddie?”

Freddie loves being videoed for almost any reason. He loves Slow Hands, as well, which is a separate issue. He’s tuneless and loud, bursting into song. Up front, Zayn’s got his own thing going, a combination of head bop and shoulder-shimmy that shouldn’t work but does - though he can make anything look good, to be honest. In another life, Louis could post the video publicly, and he’s half-tempted to, just for the trouble it would cause. But he settles for texting it to Niall, although his reception’s shit enough it probably won’t go through.

“Thanks, lads,” he says, returning his phone to the cupholder. “Niall will love it.”

The lake is small but clean, and - better yet - mostly deserted. On the far side, a few people are fishing out of boats. On the near side, their side, there’s a public picnic area and a small sandy stretch of proper beach. Zayn packed a cooler with snacks and drinks, enough to get them through the morning and probably through lunch, if they’re feeling creative.

“This is not the beach,” Freddie says, authoritatively, standing on the sand.

Louis walks him to the edge of the water, where the sand gets dark beneath their toes. “The beach you usually go to is by the ocean, which is like the world’s biggest bucket. This beach has a small bucket.”

“It smells different.” Freddie edges closer to the water, so it laps at his feet.

“Tastes different, too. Don’t drink it though.”

The lake’s fairly cool, so early in the year. It feels brilliant on Louis’ feet and calves when they wade in a bit, liquid relief.

Freddie’s content enough to stay at the edge of the water for a while, digging in the sand. Zayn sits nearby, feet and legs in the water, watching the boats.

“Been fishing lately?” Louis asks.

Zayn shakes his head. “Not in ages. I can’t even remember when I went last, to be honest.”

It’s just another reminder of how little he knows about Zayn’s life. He could be fishing every other weekend - could be a champion fisherman, the Guinness record-holder for most trout caught while smoking a spliff. As easy as these few days have been, they’re leaving tomorrow - and whatever Zayn’s life is normally like, it doesn’t include him much. Maybe that will change this time, when they part ways. Maybe it won’t. He thinks he wants it to, which is a big enough admission in itself.

“Try this muffin,” Freddie says, shoving a mashed handful of sand and small rocks in Louis’ face. “I’ve been baking it all day.”

It’s a welcome distraction. “Delicious, well done.” Louis pretends to eat.

The sun flickers off the surface of the water, burning the bones of his face. Restless all of a sudden, he starts scooping sand away from the shoreline, building a shallow pool for Freddie at the water’s edge. Zayn pitches in; between the two of them, they make quick work of it.

“Scoop on that side,” he points Zayn over to the shallow part of the hole.

“Go fun yourself.” Zayn throws a glob of wet sand at Louis’ chest, hitting him square on.

Freddie’s satisfied in his mini-lake for a while, building walls that crumble and wash away, dropping handfuls of mud into the hazy water to watch them mushroom below the surface.

Zayn’s gotten quiet, and it’s not the kind of quiet that Louis knows what to do with. It’s a dense, stubborn kind - maybe content, maybe something else, laying over Zayn like a second skin. Louis wants to worry at it, chew it gone with sharp teeth. But that’s the thing - he doesn’t know how, anymore, and he’s not sure he has the right to. Zayn’s silence is his own, Louis is no longer welcome to break it.

“Dad. I want to go back in the water.” Freddie tugs at the hem of his shirt, trying to pull him into the lake.

“Sure, buddy.” He pushes himself up off the sand, brushing it off his backside.

“Gonna lay down, I think,” Zayn says, and heads for their blanket.

Louis shucks his shirt, tossing it haphazardly at Zayn’s retreating back. It lands on his shoulder, but Zayn doesn’t turn around.

Louis takes Freddie’s hand. “You have to hold my hand, okay? We don’t have your floaties here, so you can’t jump in.”

Freddie’s a water kid, at least, and he knows he can’t just fling himself into the lake, which doesn’t always stop him from trying. The shallow water laps around Louis’ knees. Freddie crab-crawls along the bottom, finding rocks to pile on the shore. Back on land, Zayn’s laid out on the blanket, arm flung over his eyes.

“Look, Dad. More treasures.” Freddie holds up his hands, two smooth stones clasped in his little fingers.

“That’s great, Freddie. Go add them to the pile.”

He makes his way slowly to the shore, deposits his treasure in a growing heap.

“I want to go deeper,” Freddie says, when he’s slogged his way back.

The lake is shallow, so they can wade out for a long time before the water starts to get deeper. But it does, eventually; it’s hard not to gasp as the water creeps up to the tops of his thighs. He picks Freddie up and keeps walking, until the lake is up to his navel.

“Spin me, spin me,” Freddie says, wriggling on his hip.

He spins Freddie in the water until they’re both dizzy, then throws him up in the air and catches him.

“Do it again!” Freddie squeals. His laughter is loud on the water, bouncing across the surface like a thrown rock.

Louis looks around, but there’s no one they’re disturbing. It’s fucking great, the shroud of anonymity - no one knows they’re here, no one cares who they are. He tosses him up, over and over, until he can feel the strain in his shoulders and triceps, just another type of burn. Maybe he should start working out again.

“Last time,” Louis warns him, gathering him up again.

“Two more times.” Freddie looks at him with the absolute faith of someone who is used to getting what they want.

They head back in to shore when Freddie gets hungry. Zayn’s still stretched out on the blanket, every long inch of him on display. He’s not asleep, though - he’s propped up on his elbows, watching them come in, and staring at Louis so openly that he feels himself turning red. He can’t do anything about that right now.

“I’m hungry,” Freddie whinges again, like only kids can.

“There’s snacks in the cooler,” Zayn says. “Grab me a water?”

They settle across from Zayn on the other side of the blanket. Aware of every move he’s making, Louis pries open the top of the cooler, and grabs a few bottles of water out of the ice, holding one over Zayn so the cold drops fall on his chest and stomach.

“You fu--” Zayn struggles to sit up.

Freddie’s snack is big enough to count as an early lunch, after he’s done picking out everything he wants to eat. Zayn stands up and stretches, the waistband of his shorts dipping low on his waist. Sun sifts through the sparse dark hair trailing down from his navel. Jesus.

It’s been a few hours since they arrived, so Louis gets more sun cream on Freddie, who is too distracted by eating to squirm and complain. Zayn walks around the blanket in widening circles, making footprints in the sand. It’s impossible for Louis to keep his eye on him, though he never moves that far away. The cold brush of fingers against the back of Louis’ neck clues him in to where Zayn’s standing. He squashes a shiver, the tiny hairs there standing up.

Zayn runs his fingers all the way down, from the nape of Louis’ neck to the tops of his arms. “Probably need some sun cream yourself.”

For one wild moment, he thinks Zayn’s going to offer to put it on him, those long fingers stroking it over his hot skin. But Zayn drops the tube directly down, and Louis’ so unprepared he doesn’t even try to catch it. It hits him on the chest and falls to the sand.

“Ouch, you knob.”

Zayn cackles as Louis squirts sun cream into his hands and applies it to his own shoulders. Freddie’s finished eating and tries to help, smearing the lotion around. It’s not very effective, but he’s having fun.

“I want to go back in the water, Daddy. I’m getting really cold.”

Louis groans. The blanket’s pretty comfortable, and he’s just dried off all the way. Zayn crosses over to extend his hand, shoving it right in Louis’ face. He’s tempted to smack it away, but he grabs it and lets Zayn haul him up.

It’s a mistake. Zayn stays put, standing right in Louis’ space, and his heart goes off again. There are a few centimeters between them, and that’s all it would take. _Mind the gap._ It could be a trick of the light, or this fucking faerie lake, but he swears Zayn’s eyes flicker down to his mouth.

Freddie makes a run for it, hurtling back toward the remains of his dug-out pool, and the moment is broken.

“Duty calls,” Zayn laughs and slings an arm around Louis’ neck, pulling him tight against his side. They’re both bare from the waist up, and it’s not fair, all that skin pressed against him.

Zayn wades in with them this time, for a brief and furious splash war. He might splash Zayn more than is justifiable, since he can - and it’s just another moment, isn’t it? All of them in the sun, water everywhere, Freddie laughing hard enough to hiccup. Whatever residue is left - anger, disappointment, mistrust - is burned up, washed away. Zayn catches his eye, fringe plastered flat to his head, and he can’t look away.

They get back to the house just as Freddie reaches the point of critical sleepiness. It’s all Louis can do to get him in the house and ready for a nap; he’s practically asleep before his head hits the pillow. Louis adjusts the fan, so it ruffles Freddie’s sandy hair. So much of parenting is rushing through shit, trying to make sure your kid survives, trying to make sure you survive, that everyone has shoes on their feet and says please and doesn’t watch too much telly. Freddie’s growing up fast, just like everyone always says. A year from now, two years from now, will he even remember this trip? Probably not, if they never come back here again.

Well. That’s a feeling Louis doesn’t like. He pulls out his phone, takes a picture of Freddie sleeping: hair in his eyes, mouth fisted up by his face. The latch of the door is quiet as he pulls it closed behind him. He could take a nap, himself; could do a lot of things. Instead he goes downstairs.

He finds Zayn in the kitchen, beer in hand. He’s still topless, standing under the ceiling fan with his eyes closed, face tilted up to the breeze. Wanting to touch him makes Louis’ fingertips itch.

“I know you’re there,” Zayn says, and opens his eyes. “Want a beer?”

“Okay.” It might help, it might not. His mouth is so fucking dry he’d take anything.

Zayn walks over to the fridge and opens the door, leaning in to search the shelves. The muscles in his back stand out, sharp in the humid air and he knows what he’s doing, taking so long to find a bottle, arm draped over the refrigerator door. Louis swallows. He needs that beer, he needs a smoke, he needs to settle down. Absent all of that, he gets his phone out of his pocket. But there’s nothing there to distract him, for once, no matter how many screens he swipes through.

When he looks up again, Zayn’s in front of him, beer bottles in hand. He grins, wolfish, and lays one against Louis’ neck. The shock of the cold makes him jump.

“Wanker,” he mutters, pocketing his phone.

Zayn doesn’t look sorry at all, surprise of the century. He smiles and presses a bottle into Louis’ hands, but he doesn’t move away. The air between them is thick, like the whole kitchen is holding its breath. At a loss, Louis lifts the bottle and takes a drink. Zayn’s still there, four centimeters away, and when Louis lowers the bottle, he puts his hand on the back of Louis’ neck and kisses him.

Zayn’s mouth is cold and beer-flavored, and not tentative in the slightest. It’s soft for about one second, and then Louis opens his mouth and Zayn’s tongue licks in, easy as anything, and thought swoops out. All the reasons this should probably not happen - but it _is_ happening, and it feels good, familiar and strange at once. Zayn nipping at his bottom lip and cradling the back of his head like he’s thirsty for this, only this.

He’d call it a whimper, the sound that works out of him when Zayn bites at his jaw, except he doesn’t whimper.

“Shit.” His free hand scrapes over Zayn’s waist, digging into the smooth skin there. Zayn’s sucking kisses down his neck, the thin shallow where his pulse is battering. Chest to chest, they’re both filmed with sweat, and he’s a proper dirty bastard, getting turned on by it.

“Gonna make it?” Zayn asks, drawing back. He’s got a smile on his face, slow and mocking, but Louis can feel where he’s half-hard against his leg.

“Dicks don’t lie, Z.” Since it seems like this actually might happen, he sucks in a breath and pulls Zayn in the last bit, until there’s no space between them at all. “Don’t you know that song?”

This close, his own chest shakes with Zayn’s laughter. He drops his head into the corner of Louis’ neck, staccato breath bursting out over Louis’ collarbone. Louis snakes his hand around, to press his cold bottle against the small of Zayn’s back - just to hear him gasp, to feel him jerk where their hips are pressed together. His dick’s not lying, either, it might burst out of his pants if they don’t move this along.

“I didn’t -” Zayn lifts his head. His eyes flick down to Louis’ mouth, then back up again. “Didn’t know if you still thought about it.”

“I’m thinking about it now.” He rocks their hips together, slow. “Thought about it, if I’m being honest.” _A lot_ , he wants to say. _More than I should have._ But this feels incredible; he’s all go, despite his resolutions to not tumble in.

Zayn eases back a step, and the loss of his touch aches over Louis’ skin. He takes another drink of his beer and sets the bottle on the island; he takes Louis’ and sets it on the table, too. His hands are steady on the bottles, steady on the sides of Louis’ face as he steps back in.

“All right?” he asks, searching Louis’ eyes.

“Yeah.” His throat’s dry again, but he moves in for another kiss.

Kissing Zayn can be a pastime, if he does it right - that night in Thailand, where they smoked up and kissed for hours on the crisp hotel sheets, neither of them trying for more.

They’re both trying for more today.

“Can we -” Zayn gets out, pulling his mouth away.

He leads Louis out of the kitchen to the sitting room and pushes him onto the sofa there, following him with his mouth. It’s overwhelming - he’s so hot, despite the ceiling fan pushing the air around. Zayn’s mouth scorches up his stomach, up his chest as he climbs on top of him, bracketing Louis in with his arms. He likes that still, being surrounded; then Zayn rolls his hips down, and he can’t think about it anymore.

For once in his life, Zayn must be out of words. It’s mostly quiet, except for the hum of the fan, the wet sound of their mouths meeting and lurching apart. It lets him focus on the details: Zayn sucking on his neck, breathing unsteadily in his ears. The scratch of stubble on his shoulder. The thick line of Zayn’s cock rubbing against him, through the fabric of their pants. The way Zayn’s knees squeeze against him, knobby and too tight, smashed like they are on the couch. He can’t afford to get lost in the moment, in case he can’t remember later. And it’s building, faster than he wants.

“Shit,” he grates out, arching up. “I’m - you’re -”

Zayn backs off enough to shove Louis’ shorts and pants down, where they get caught around the tops of his thighs. He curls his fingers around Louis’ prick. Jesus. Those fingers, long, delicate, tugging on him, relentless. Zayn looking into his eyes, never looking away. Pulling him over the edge. It’s white noise for a minute, white light hot under his eyelids.

When he opens them again, Zayn’s shoved his own kit down and is touching himself, knees spread wide around Louis’ hips, fingers wet with Louis’ come - and it’s a sight, it’s fucking beautiful. He puts his hand over Zayn’s, slides them up and down, up and down; too long and not long enough, until Zayn stiffens and dips down to kiss him, all wet tongue and sloppy teeth, and comes with a gasp.

Zayn’s heavy weight on top of Louis’ chest feels good. He smooths his hand down Zayn’s back, running it over his damp sharp spine. Zayn breathes into his hair for a bit, shuddery and loud. He drops a kiss behind Louis’ ear eventually and eases his way off, tucking himself back into his pants.

Then Louis is alone again, cool air ghosting over him and the empty place where Zayn was lying. He feels naked all of a sudden, awkward: sprawled out, covered in their mess, pants tangled around his thighs. Zayn’s eyeing him, heavy-lidded like he’s proud of his work and also two seconds from a nap. He’s got a strong impulse to squirm under that gaze, but he keeps still with an effort.

Zayn drops his hand on Louis’ knee. Even his kneecaps are sweating. “That was -”

“Yeah. It was.” Louis cuts him off. He doesn’t want to hear it, all of a sudden - the things Zayn says when they’ve hooked up. He’s got a good handle on that library, seems like it hasn’t changed much.

He wriggles, pulling up his shorts as best he can. “Gonna get cleaned up, I think.” He waves his hand a little helplessly, gesturing at his stomach. Post-sex logistics were never his strong suit.

“Hang on, I’ll -” Zayn gets up and disappears towards the kitchen.

Louis closes his eyes for a second. He didn’t know what he thought would happen next - he wasn’t thinking, anyway, never does. He just pushes and pushes, until he gets what he wants, and he’s stuck with the inevitable aftermath. Zayn comes back a minute later with a paper towel. It’s a little damp, like he ran some water over it. For some reason, it makes him want to cry.

“Thanks,” he says, instead. _Keep it casual_. He can do this. So, he breathes hard through his nose, and starts cleaning up.

Zayn’s hovering over him, every line in his body an awkward expression, like he’s not sure if he should sit down again or if he should be helping.

“It’s fucking hot,” he says, finally, scratching at his hair while Louis mops himself up.

At least he can pull his shorts up the rest of the way, now. He sits up briskly. Upright, he’s disappointed to find himself in the same dumb fucking situation that he was before. It’s not Zayn’s fault, this time, just his own. Best get this show on the road. “Yeah. Think I’m going to take a shower.”

Zayn nods, face unreadable for a second. “Yeah, of course.” He yawns and sticks out his hand to help Louis up.

And Louis is either an idiot or he wants to be punished because he grabs it, lets Zayn haul him up and there he is again, filling Louis’ space, smelling like beach and sex and everything he shouldn’t have for more than just a few minutes. Zayn yawns, hugely this time.

“Aww, sleepy baby.” He steps out of Zayn’s orbit and moves toward the stairs. “Maybe you should go for a kip.”

Zayn shoves him along, hands lingering against his shoulder blades. “Maybe I should.” His words are split by another yawn. “Maybe I will.”

He keeps walking, Zayn close on his heels - too close. It feels like his eyes are burning a hole in the bare skin of Louis’ back; he’ll be scorched down to bone by the time he gets upstairs. What’ll be left? A charred skeleton wrapped around his limping heart, smudged with ashes.

Zayn peels off for his own room once they get to the top of the stairs. “‘Night,” he mumbles.

Louis shoots him a glance over his shoulder. He looks good enough to want all over again: blinking, half-asleep, hair climbing vertical off his forehead. He hangs in his bedroom doorway like he doesn’t want to go in just yet.

“See you at wakey-time,” Louis smiles. It fits his face easily enough, there’s not too much cracking to plaster it on. He’s a right mess: the parts of him that want to be friends, that don’t want to be friends, that don’t want to test the fragile thing they’ve built.

“Yeah, all right,” Zayn says, and turns to go in.

After that, Louis can’t get in the shower fast enough. He turns the water on as cold as he can stand. Then he’s under the spray, washing off the day. Lake water. Sand. Everything else. The cool water sluices over him like relief. There, on his chest, marked red by Zayn’s mouth. There, lower **.**

He takes a breath, deep and slow. He bungled that, but not in the worst way. It was good. It felt good. Zayn wanted it, he wanted it; they’re adults, no one got hurt. No one’s getting hurt - they’ll talk, later. Even if they don’t want to, he knows they will.

Louis gets out of the shower before he starts shivering, but only just. It’s still too hot for a shirt, so he pulls his pants and shorts back on. It’s a bit manky, the hard spot on the waistband where his come dried - or maybe it’s Zayn’s. Maybe it’s both, mixed together. He rubs his thumb over it, the proof that it really happened. Hopefully Freddie will nap long today, he might go proper barmy if he doesn’t get some sleep.

Scratch that. He may have already gone mental, because he opens the door to his room and there’s Zayn stretched out on half the bed, the side Louis doesn’t sleep on. He’s got one arm curled behind his head, dead to the world; the early afternoon sun patterns his chest.

Louis exhales, hard, and climbs in bed as softly as he can - which is idiotic, it’s not as if he jostles the mattress too much, Zayn will disappear. Once he’s down, he’s not sure what to do with his body. His limbs feel like sticks, all awkward angles. Could just lay there like Dracula, rigid and composed; there’s no way he’s going to fall asleep. But his limbs get heavy, and then his eyes. Zayn sighs in his sleep, a tiny whoosh of breath, and Louis is out.

He bolts awake to Freddie calling on the monitor, and he’s out of bed too fast to notice if Zayn’s even up yet. It’s probably best that way. He’s not ready to wake up next to Zayn - he’s not sure what to do now that he’s awake himself, to be fully candid.

It’s always good to have a project, so he gets Freddie up and sorted. They go downstairs for some telly, though he changes plans at the last minute - they can’t exactly sit on the sofa, not the way he’s just used it with Zayn, so they set up in the kitchen with Freddie’s iPad and a snack. Freddie sits right on top of the island to eat; Louis doesn’t have to worry about him falling off one of the high stools, it’s brilliant. The beer bottles from earlier sit, still unfinished, on the countertop. He can feel the flush creeping up his face as he dumps them down the sink.

“Dad, watch.” Freddie shows him the video he’s watching, North American Forest Animals. It’s one of Freddie’ favorites: a parade of pixelated animals streams past, narrated over by the most monotone bloke Louis has ever heard. “It’s the raccoony!”

“It’s a cutie, just like you,” Louis says, ruffling his hair. He’s getting blonder already, streaked by the spring sunlight. It’ll be fully white by the end of summer, probably.

He’s a bit queasy, waiting for Zayn to show up, answering a few texts from Michelle to distract himself. Next week is completely squared away. She’s just double-checking things to stay busy; it’s her way of handling the stress, he can relate. There’s no way to control all the details in life - it’s the details that surprise you, sometimes - but she’s got to learn that for herself.

Shit. His earlier resolve to keep things simple has vanished, rinsed down the shower drain like soap. He’d give anything to talk to Niall right now - or Harry, even. Anyone with more experience accidentally-on-purpose fucking their former best friend. But there’s no time for that, there never is. Thank god for creaky stairs; at least he’s got some warning that Zayn’s on his way.

Zayn wanders in, heavy-eyed, hair everywhere, and Louis’ heart starts a brutal ping-pong game. He’s got a shirt on, at least, and gives Louis and Freddie a sleepy smile as he makes his way to the dispenser for a glass of water. On his way back, he drops into the stool next to Louis with no warning, bumping their knees together.

“What’re you watching, Freddie?” Zayn’s voice is slow, scratchy with sleep. It hits Louis in the stomach like an arrow.

“It’s Spacecraft.” Freddie says, turning the iPad so Zayn can see. The space vehicles make their way across the screen, one at a time. Spacex Dragon. GPS Satellite. Louis’ personal favorite, the Voyager Space Probe.

“Cool. I like it.”

Zayn keeps nudging against him, _bump bump bump._ It’s royally unfair, since he knows he’s blushing; each time Zayn sneaks a look at him, his flush ratchets up a notch. _It’s okay_ , he tells himself. It can hold until they have time to talk. Later.

The afternoon passes in a slow haze of heat. Zayn enlists Freddie to help tend the animals, which is mostly checking their food and water levels. He runs the hose all the way over to the horse pen to teach Freddie how to spray Cool and Rapidash.

“Here,” Zayn says, turning the nozzle to a soft shower and putting it in Freddie’s hands. “You can spray them anywhere, they don’t mind.” He draws a line in the dirt with his toe. “Stay behind this line, though - Cool might try to eat the hose if you get too close.”

Freddie’s eyes are huge, but he points the hose at the horses obligingly. They grimace with happiness, it’s fucking weird. Cool edges right up against the fence, hogging the water, and the skin on his back jerks as the droplets land, making Freddie shriek with laughter.

“You’re doing great, bud,” Louis hovers behind him, steadying his hand around the nozzle. Zayn steps in right behind him, close enough for Louis to feel his breath on the back of his neck. He squelches a laugh with an effort - it’d probably come out hysterical, he doesn’t want to scare anyone.

The goats get fed and spritzed, as well, although they don’t seem as obvious in their enjoyment. Bit inscrutable, goats. He makes a note to ask Zayn later if they wear jumpers in winter. Though they’re leaving tomorrow, and it’s not late yet but it’s getting there; there’s not a lot of later left, if he wants to find out what sort of jumpers the goats do or don’t wear.

The chicks are penned in an outside enclosure, free to roam the straw and gravel. There’s a little house tucked into the corner, where they can rest in the shade. It’s adorable.

Zayn pulls out his phone, consulting. “Guess we can leave the chicks out here for now. Cold front’s not coming through ‘til tomorrow night.”

“You use an app? Really?” Louis remarks, amazed. “Thought you had an almanac or summat, a farmer journal upstairs. ‘ _Birthed me first calf today. I’ve named her Agnes. Wheat crop’s blighted. I fear the bitter winter to come_.’”

Zayn’s laugh is big and warm. “Bet you’d like to read my entry for today.” He leans in, close enough to feel the heat from Louis face, where the blood’s rushed to his cheeks. “Went to the lake. Ate lunch. Had a wank on -”

Louis slaps his hand over Zayn’s mouth. He can see Zayn’s crinkly eyes over the top of his fingers, and he’s knows he’s a half-second from getting licked or bitten but doesn’t know which he wants more - apart from all of it - and it makes him shiver.

“Freddie,” he croaks, barely loud enough for Freddie to register. “Time to water the garden.”

Zayn’s sucked some skin from Louis’ palm between his teeth and is flicking his tongue over the tiny patch. A small lightning storm arcs down his arm, right to his knob; it’s ridiculous.

“Okay, Daddy.” Freddie stands up, a pint-sized blur in the corner of his eye.

He takes his hand off Zayn’s mouth, reluctantly.

“I’m coming back to that later,” Zayn says. And then he goes to fuss over something else, thank god - the horses, the hay, a rusty heirloom tractor, whatever it is farmers fuss with - and Louis can breathe again.

Somehow his cigarettes are dry, despite his kid’s liberal application of the hose to everyone and everything. It’s cooling off incrementally, now that sunset’s approaching; the smoke from his exhales make little twists in the air.

Freddie’s watering the garden soil with great attention to detail, saturating every corner. There’s no trace yet of the seeds they planted, the things that might or might not grow. Resting underground, soaking in the rain and the sun - he’s felt that way, sometimes, over the past four years. Surviving, finding a way to make it through. Waiting for life to give him a break, to stop breaking him; waiting for his chance.

He doesn’t have to wait anymore: his chance is here, he’s living it. And he doesn’t want to leave tomorrow - it surprises him how much he wants to stay, when he makes himself actually think about it - but he wants this chance more than almost anything. More than staying, if that were even on the table. He’s not sure if it is.

This quiet place - it’s different to what he’d choose, but it’s easy to see why Zayn loves it. Louis closes his eyes and pictures him, further on, beyond the barn, at the edge of the stable. Shorts hanging off his narrow hips, dust motes dancing ‘round his head. He’s probably scratching some animal’s nose, murmuring sweet and low.

As if summoned, Zayn comes around the side of the barn, shading his eyes against the slanting evening sun.

“Want to go into town for pizza? There’s a place -”

Freddie drops the hose in his excitement. He’s soaked again, hair plastered against his head. “Pizza! Yes!”

There’s no taking it back, now that Freddie’s heard. Louis sighs and snuffs his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe.

“Classy,” Zayn laughs over at him. He’s a safe distance away, but any distance is too close to put Louis at ease.

“Is it safe, you think? Going out?”

“Well.” Zayn wanders closer. “You never know when there’s a killer amongst us, but…”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant, you know.” Louis waves his hand between the two of them.

Zayn arches an eyebrow, leans in to mutter. “Not gonna blow you in public, like.”

“Moron.” He pushes Zayn away, but Zayn catches him and puts an arm around his neck.

“It’ll be fine,” Zayn says, brushing his fingers over the top of Louis’ chest, where his hand dangles down. “No one will care.”

New Hope is a tiny town, mostly a stretch of Main Street flanked by neat neighborhoods. The restaurant is cute but plain, with blessed air con, and Zayn was right - no one seems to have a single fuck to give about who they are, although Louis slapped on a snapback just to be sure. It’s too hot for long sleeves, and his tattoos are usually a dead giveaway if someone’s looking.

The waitress nods at Zayn in a familiar way, takes their order, and leaves them alone.

Zayn sits across the booth from him and Freddie, and Louis can’t stop watching him, can’t even pretend he’s not. It’s hard to play it cool when Zayn’s fiddling with sugar packets, fingers flipping them over and over, stacking them up.

He’s fucked. _It’s not a thing,_ he reminds himself. They’ll talk later. He’ll say it over and over, until he knows it. He’s good at drills.

Freddie keeps up a constant stream of chatter, at least, coloring in the sheet the hostess gave him. He’s only got a handful of crayons, but he does his best.

“Look at the pumpkin, Dad,” he points to the page, where he’s messily covered over the pumpkin outlined there, languishing in its black and white field.

“Why’s it blue, buddy?”

“It’s an ice-type.” Freddie explains. “It uses ice rays to fight.”

“Sick.” Zayn leans over to look at his picture. “What else do you have there?”

Freddie’s three minutes deep into explaining his farm scene to Zayn when their food comes. The pizza is good, gooey and sloppy and not sexy in the slightest. He relaxes, eventually. Zayn behaves himself, becomes for a few minutes just his old friend, a person he knows so well that they can get through anything if they try hard enough or wait it out long enough. Anything can become bearable; anything can become normal again.

The waitress brings a box for the rest of their food just in time. Freddie’s sagging against him in the booth, rapidly running out of steam. There’s no feeling quite like it, having him tucked against his side, trusting and secure.

“You okay, Fredd-o?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “I really loved my chick food.” He takes the opportunity to crawl into Louis’ lap.

“Hmmm…” Louis scratches at his scalp and he sprawls back against Louis’ chest, fully relaxed. “Think you’re getting tired, love.”

“I’m not tired,” he protests, though his eyes are drooping. “I’m not going to bed all night.”

“No?” Louis asks. It’s a familiar argument. Across the table, Zayn’s watching them, and the look on his face squeezes Louis’ heart like a steel band. “What are you going to do, then?”

“Lay in bed with my eyes open.” He yawns but sits up straighter. “Then the stars will fall into my mouth and burn in my stomach until I puke them out like seeds. Then I’ll have a star garden.”

Zayn slides out of the booth, extending a hand to help Freddie up. “Sounds amazing, mate. What’s a star garden?”

The night’s cooling off some, though humidity is still high. It’s a short drive back to the farm in the quiet car. Zayn taps his fingers against the steering wheel. Louis checks the rearview mirror to make sure Freddie’s awake every ten seconds or so.

There’s no second wind, tonight, when they get to the house. Freddie’s in his pajamas straightaway, teeth cleaned, books read. Zayn doesn’t follow them up, which is both a relief and a disappointment.

Bria answers right away when they ring her. And she wanted the few days to herself - she does so much, she’s a wonderful mum - but Louis can see the excitement on her face, the way she means it when she wiggles and says, “See you tomorrow, buddy. I can’t wait.”

They ring off after a few minutes, once Freddie’s had a chance to natter on about the pizza restaurant. Then it’s lights out; he lays next to Freddie for a while. “Did you like it here?” Louis asks.

“Yeah, I like it. I want to come back week!”

“I’ll tell that to Zayn, buddy. I’m sure he’ll have us back.”

He gathers himself to stand, but Freddie throws his arms around his neck before he can get up. “One more minute of snuggle time.”

“Of course. Love a cuddle.”

Freddie rolls onto his side, moving in closer to where Louis’ laying on the edge of the bed. Freddie’s like a tiny furnace and it’s too hot to be comfortable, but Louis puts an arm over him, anyway. He stays for another minute, until Freddie’s breath evens out and he’s asleep.

Louis stares up at the dark ceiling, shadows from the curtains drifting over the white expanse. He’s got no idea what happens next, when he leaves Freddie’s room, but he’s oddly calm about it. How many times has he done this, walked out of a room and into some great unknown? This isn’t that big, in the grand scheme of things.

Zayn catches him before he can get downstairs. “Hey,” he says, coming out just as Louis passes his bedroom, scaring the shit out of him. “All right there? Too many scary movies?”

“Prat.” He aims a blow at Zayn’s chest, but Zayn grabs his hand and twines their fingers together as his stomach tries to fly out of his body; a bloody sop, he is.

“Want to show you something.” It’s not a question, but Zayn says it like it is.

“Thought you’d be more creative. Is that the best you can come up with?”

“Fuck you,” Zayn says.

Louis’ mouth dries up a little with how much he might want that. He nods, out of words. Zayn grins and tugs his hand, leading them back to Louis’ room.

He’s not sure what to expect when they make it to the bedroom, but Zayn doesn’t stop by the bed - he keeps walking, leading Louis over to the open window. The curtains are fluttering with the night breeze; there’s not enough wind to make it completely comfortable, but it’s better than nothing.

Zayn drops Louis’ hand. “It’s out here,” he says, and ducks through the window, onto the roof that covers the back porch. There’s nothing to do except follow.

The roof is wide and gently sloped, which makes it easy to walk on. And Louis doesn’t know what he expected - faerie lights strewn about, a record player oozing gentle strains of something. But there’s none of that, of course, since his life’s not an episode of Love Island - just the beach blanket spread out over the asphalt shingles. A can for cigarette butts. The little cooler from before. And the formless night, tightening around them.

“I come out here, sometimes.” Zayn settles onto the beach blanket and pats the empty spot next to him.

“It’s nice,” Louis says. He sits down, close but not touching. Zayn pulls out his smokes, lighting one for each of them.

The filter’s wet against Louis’ mouth when he takes the first drag, as intimate as kissing, almost. He draws the smoke in deep, turning his head on the exhale. Zayn’s looking out over the garden, into the night, knees pulled up. The backs of his thighs are pale, where his shorts fall away; Louis wants to taste them, run his thumbs along that spot. It hits him that he might not be able to - they’ve just tonight, who knows what’ll happen after.

“Busy week next week, yeah?” Zayn’s voice is loud, breaking up the growing silence.

“Bit of a madhouse I suppose. It’s exciting, though. I’m ready for it.”

“I know you are. Think sometimes…” He exhales and doesn’t seem like he’s going to continue.

“What?”

Zayn shrugs, shoulders hunching up around his knees. “I like it out here. I think sometimes, if none of that had ever happened. What would I be doing, like.” The _if I thought about it at all_ doesn’t need to be said.

“Don’t take this wrong. But probably not farming in Nowhere, America.” He nudges his elbow into Zayn’s side. “You’d still have your music, maybe a side job. Delivering pizza or summat.”

“Hey…” Zayn drawls, mock-offended. He shifts closer on the blanket, so their hips are almost touching.

“I had to pick something in your skill set. Plus, I’d be there with you, wouldn’t I? Be your boss, probably, at the pizza place, telling you what to do all the time.” He throws his cigarette into the ash can.

“You’d do that anyway.” Zayn nudges him with an elbow.

“And you’d never listen.” He takes Zayn’s cigarette and tosses it into the ashcan, too. Face to face, all the air gets sucked out of the sky. “What are we doing, Zayn?”

Zayn bats his eyes. “Oooh, are we having _talk time_?”

“Fuck off,” Louis says. “You knew we were going to.” It’s impossible not to fidget. He likes to talk, he’s _all_ talk at times, but this stuff never comes easy. “And we never. Before, you know, when we -”

“- Shagged,” Zayn interrupts.

“Were _in the band_ ,” Louis flicks his arm. “We never really talked about it. Didn’t turn out too well, did it?”

“Suppose you’re right,” Zayn allows, flicking him back.

“So. What are we doing?” he repeats. It’ll be better if Zayn goes first.

Zayn’s quiet for a long time, staring at the side of Louis’ face. “I don’t have all the answers, Lou. I know how it feels - how it felt - but. ‘S about it right now.”

“Okay.” He takes a big breath. He still can’t look at Zayn; it’s too tender, somehow. “How does it feel, then?”

Zayn doesn’t hesitate, like he’s got the words at the tip of his tongue. “Good. Easy. Like it makes sense. I missed you, you know. Even when - even with everything. And… not just the friend things. I missed it all.” He runs a finger up the side of Louis’ arm, tracing the outline of each tattoo he finds. “What about you?”

It’s like that first day, Zayn pressing him to choose a room, pick something just for him. Life doesn’t work that way, hasn’t for a long time. He’s always got other people to think about.

“I don’t -” Louis shakes his head. “What if I don’t know what I want?”

“Relax.” Zayn pries his hand up, where it’s twisted into the blanket. “Don’t need your seven-year plan, like. How about right now?”

“It’s not that simple. You know it isn’t.”

“Maybe not. But we’ve been doing better. Good, I think.” He sounds uncertain, all of a sudden, tracing the tips of Louis’ fingers with the edge of his thumb.

“Very good,” Louis allows. “Brilliant, even.”

“I wasn’t done, but cool.” Zayn laughs. “So, I’m gonna leave it up to you, yeah? What we do. Or don’t do. You know.”

Louis doesn’t know shit, and the answer is sometimes as easy as that: when you don’t know shit, sometimes you go with the best option. Right now, what Zayn’s offering sounds pretty fucking ace. “All right. Kiss me, then.”

Zayn’s mouth is on his before he’s even done talking. It’s even better this time, since they’re on the same page. Addictive, the little sounds Zayn makes, when Louis licks his teeth, the salty line of his throat. His hands pull at Louis’ hair, tugging the short strands at the back and it’s just enough pain, the right amount to keep him anchored.

“Is it good?” Zayn asks, when Louis groans against his neck.

“It’s perfect.”

It’s easy to pull Zayn’s shirt off, though the collar gets stuck on his head. It’s easy to push him back, until he’s laid out on the blanket. Zayn sucks his bottom lip into his mouth when Louis palms him through his shorts, and he takes a minute to appreciate the view: Zayn topless, leaned back on his elbows, wanting him. They never had enough time, the times it happened before - so they wouldn’t get caught, maybe; so they wouldn’t make it more than what it was.

“Like what you see?” Zayn smirks. It’s a lie, that smirk; Louis can see how fast he’s breathing.

“Up,” he says, patting Zayn’s hip once he’s lowered the zip on his shorts. Zayn lifts up obligingly, and then he’s naked on a rooftop in Nowhere, America, where only the moon and the night bugs can see them. It takes Louis’ stomach on a slow dive. He’s careful to set Zayn’s clothes aside, so they can find them later; if his hands are shaking slightly in the well-worn fabric, it’s too dark to see.

“Louis,” Zayn says, and he sounds needy and controlled, all at once.

Louis drops his head, nosing along the happy trail of hair that leads down Zayn’s stomach. It might be creepy, but he inhales, assaulted by sense-memory, runs his mouth along the curve of Zayn’s dick.

Blood thunders through his ears when he takes Zayn in his hand, smearing the wetness at the tip while Zayn watches, transfixed. Thank god he’s being quiet again, since Louis wouldn’t be able to hear a thing he said.

The ache in Louis’ jaw is worth it. He wants it more than he thought, the stretch of Zayn’s prick in his mouth; the stretch of Zayn’s prick in other places. Zayn’s got his hands in Louis’ hair again, on his shoulders, clutching at the blanket below them while Louis does his best. He’s out of practice, and he knows he’s making a mess, drooling everywhere. It doesn’t seem to matter to Zayn, whose hips are making tiny thrusts. His knob swells in Louis’ mouth and it’s almost too much, he almost has to pull off, but Zayn groans and comes, bitter on Louis’ tongue, thighs quaking beneath the press of Louis’ palms.

Louis sits on his heels. His face is a mess of spit and come, and the corners of his mouth ache, right along with his jaw. He uses the edge of his shirt to clean himself up, resisting Zayn’s tug at the waistband of his shorts.

“Get over here,” Zayn mutters, finally getting enough leverage to knock Louis off balance, pull him down for a kiss. He still likes to taste himself, sweeping his tongue into Louis’ mouth.

“Okay?” Louis asks, drawing back to breathe. He’s liable to explode soon, if Zayn doesn’t do something more than kiss him.

“Fucking great,” Zayn says. His lips move back over Louis’, deep and sure, growing sloppy as he tries to work Louis’ shorts down without disconnecting their mouths.

Louis almost dies when Zayn gets a hand on him, loosely fisting where he’s aching and hard. “Finally, christ.” But there’s no weight behind it; he’s already thrusting into Zayn’s fist.

“Shut up.” Zayn shifts them onto their sides, and rucks Louis’ shirt up, continuing his mission of kissing and wanking. Louis’ so worked up, he’s not going to take long. Night air creeps up the exposed skin of his back, Zayn fuses their mouths together until they’re sharing one breath. It’s all too much.

He digs his fingers into the top of Zayn’s shoulder and chases the feeling spreading through him, until he’s nothing but chasing and feeling, and _oh, shit -_

Zayn swallows Louis’ whine when he comes, slowing his hand until Louis pushes it away at last. Zayn shifts back, enough to grab his own t-shirt to clean them up, gentle where Louis is sensitive.

“Watch it,” Louis says, anyway. It’s been quiet between them, probably the good kind, but.

“Mmmmm.” As if the ten second delay was too long, Zayn dives back in for a kiss as soon as he’s finished with cleanup. Louis’ lips are going to go numb at some point, the way they’ve been glued to Zayn’s. It’s all right.

Turns out they can’t actually kiss forever, which is probably for the best. Louis is going to need his mouth for other things, a few days from now - interviews, singing, stirring the pot. Zayn pulls away, sitting up enough to pull his shorts back on. Louis fumbles his own clothes back into some kind of order. He’s still splayed across the blanket, utterly relaxed, waiting for the awkwardness from earlier to crawl back in. It doesn’t, and he’s not sure why - if it’s the cover of darkness, the strange intimacy of being on the rooftop, what. Zayn hands him a beer, so he makes himself sit up and take it.

If someone had told him a year ago he’d be doing this - laying on Zayn’s farmhouse roof, drinking beer, freshly fucked and talking about nothing - he’d have had reason to question their grasp on reality. But Zayn’s going on about guitar pedals, some optical vibe machine that gets a tone just like Hendrix’, and it’s like the last wonky corner in Louis’ brain suddenly slots into place and he’s… happy. The world doesn’t change color, the bats don’t leap from the trees and twirl about their heads - but there it is, simple, uncomplicated, filling him up like jelly whip.

 

It’s not yet morning when Louis wakes up, caught in that interminable time after sleep and before waking when the sky is dark, and it could be midnight or four in the morning. He doesn’t know what wakes him. In the quiet of his room, everything is still. Freddie’s silent on the monitor. Then he feels it: fingertips on his back, tracing a knob of spine, quick and light, almost too fast to register. There, again: fingers ghosting up, making gooseflesh in their wake. He rolls over.

Zayn blinks at him, as if Louis caught him by surprise. “Hey,” he says, the edges of his mouth curling up.

In the space between them, a whole universe could form: dense with stars, chances taken and not, possibilities piled on top of each other like tissue paper. Louis hangs there for a second, suspended. It’s both too late and too early think about whatever the fuck they’re doing.

So, he leans forward, spanning the universe. Zayn’s lips are easy under his, pliant in a way that he knows can be hard for Zayn to give.

He tries to pull back, but Zayn stops him, hand on the back of Louis’ head keeping him close.

“I’ve got to get up in the morning,” he complains against Zayn’s mouth.

“You can sleep on the plane,” Zayn says, kissing him again.

He moves his lips over Louis’ cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, coming back to his lips, finally; Louis sighs against him. Zayn’s body is warm and so is his mouth, moving lazily over his. Zayn’s everywhere - his smell in the sheets, his skin against Louis’ chest, his breath in Louis’ mouth. He wants it so much, to pull it over him like a blanket, to pack it up and carry it everywhere. But tiredness is tugging him away.

“Go back to sleep,” Zayn murmurs. His arm lays heavy over Louis’ hip, anchoring him for a last little while.

It seems impossible, but he does.

 

When he wakes up again, light’s flooding bright through the window. Freddie’s voice is quiet on the monitor, content for now to talk to Goke and Froggie. Zayn’s still passed out on the pillow. Louis’ got an unbearable urge to brush his fringe away from his face, see those eyes flutter open. It could be any morning - yesterday, tomorrow, June 2014. The shit from last night is still out in the porch roof, a reminder of what happened between them - what’s happening between them, maybe. They should have done that tattoo.

“DADDY!” Freddie shouts over the monitor, and it’s officially wake up time.

The house is chaotic today for the first time, everything happening in fast motion. Louis and Freddie get up, get dressed, get breakfast. Zayn makes it downstairs before they do, somehow, and joins them in the kitchen while Louis busies himself making coffee, fighting down the blood in his cheeks - it’s easier if he’s got something to do with his hands.

Zayn and Freddie are eating the same cereal, clustered ‘round the iPad, watching the Pokémon movie. They’re not sharing a bowl, at least, though that’s probably the next evolution of their friendship. Louis gets a picture of them, from where he’s standing by the kitchen sink. He catches a glimpse of John through the window there, walking through the back garden.

Louis takes a few steps forward to flick Zayn in the shoulder. “Thought you’d be out there, farmer man. Talking over feed types and feathering stages and whatnot.”

“Nah,” Zayn says, pulling him in for a cuddle, nosing at his armpit. “I’m fine where I am.”

He digs his hand into Zayn’s hair, giving his scalp a scratch. It’s a major infraction. Does it even matter at this point? Probably not, the way Zayn sighs and slumps against him.

It’s still bloody hot and muggy, but they go outside after breakfast. They’ve got a long day of travel - car, airplane, car again - and it’ll be better for all involved if Freddie can burn some energy before they go. He has a smoke and so does Zayn, who hovers just outside of touching range. The morning light is wickedly bright, bleaching out the details of the farm.

“Hey,” Louis says, sidling closer. He shifts his cigarette to his left hand and drops his free hand down to bump against Zayn’s.

“Hey.” Zayn exhales expansively out into the garden but curls his little finger over Louis’.

Freddie’s running around the raised beds, examining the garden for seedlings. “I don’t see anything yet, Daddy.”

“You’re running too fast to see anything, buddy.”

“I can’t stop,” he says, little legs pumping fast below his body; it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t trip.

That’s life, though. Sometimes you need to run, even if there’s risk of falling. He twists his hand in Zayn’s, so he can fully link their fingers. It’s too bleeding hot to hold hands, but fuck it. Who knows when they’ll get to see each other again?

Kayla shows up mid-morning, while they’re having a spot of lemonade on the back porch, and then it’s go time. Her cheerful face is just a notch too much; Louis likes her, but she’s the last thing he wants to see right now, torn between what he’s walking towards and what he’s leaving behind. Might be leaving behind. Who knows anymore? Niall’s gonna have a field day with him, when he gets the full story.

“Kayla!” Freddie’s fully excited to see her, at least. “Do you want to see the chicks?”

“I sure would,” Kayla says, looking at Louis for approval.

Louis checks his phone - they’ve got time, before they need to leave. It’d be a good chance for Louis to pack up while Freddie’s occupied.

He nudges Zayn. “Is it all right, do you think? Might get the cases sorted while they play.”

“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll just…” Zayn nods in the direction of the pen. “Take them?”

“Okay, sure.”

Up in his room, Louis’ glad for a few minutes to steady himself. The bedroom’s a pretty good reflection of himself right now - a bit of a tip, not terrible, but not tidy as it was when he arrived. He’s got socks and shorts strewn everywhere, seems like.

“Could help you with your bags, you know.” Zayn’s leaning against the doorway, watching him stuff the last of his shit into the corner of his case. It all fit in there fine when he was packing to come, it’s not like he’s been to the gift shop.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” He straightens up, does the zip. It strains to close, but it closes.

Zayn’s slouched against the wall, looking all around the room - looking anywhere but at Louis. It’s a big change from the kitchen earlier, the distance sneaking between them.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? Day after tomorrow, I’m going to pack again, fly back this way.” Louis sets the suitcase on the floor and makes his way over to Zayn. “Was mad, maybe, coming here.”

Zayn squints at him. “Maybe.” A smile edges over his mouth as Louis starts to lean in.

“Wouldn’t change it, though.”

He means to keep it short, the kiss, but Zayn has other ideas, slipping his fingers into the edge of Louis’ waistband and pulling him in.

It feels good to let himself get lost in it. Zayn nuzzles into him, dipping his tongue into Louis’ mouth, and there’s a hot minute where Louis wonders if there’s enough time to push Zayn on the bed before anyone would notice, before he has to go.

He pulls back from Zayn’s mouth, instead. “So…” he starts, moving back a step, a whole encyclopedia of unsaid words suddenly wanting to flare to life. It’s not the right time - but they do have time, at least. Maybe not right this second, but soon.

“Yeah.” Zayn gives him a tight smile and pushes himself off the wall. “Freddie’s stuff all squared away?”

Louis nods.

“I’ll grab it for you.”

“’Spose that’d be nice.” Louis backs up again, enough to give Zayn space to walk away.

Zayn smiles again, a better job this time, and disappears into Freddie’s room. Louis slumps on the bed as soon as he’s gone, worrying at the strap of his case. It’s time to round Freddie up, probably, but whatever mechanism that helps him breathe has got lodged somewhere behind the lump in his throat, and he has to breathe if he’s going to make it downstairs.

A few deep inhales do the trick. Louis rolls the case out without looking back, heading down the hallway. If Zayn’s waiting for him in Freddie’s, romantic declaration at the ready - well, he’ll never find out now.

Louis’ footsteps on the stairs seem loud, each creak a testament to his uncertainty. They’ve got to leave in thirty minutes, give or take, to make it to the airport in time.

Out in the chick pen, Freddie’s cuddled up to a couple of chicks; his delight today is the same as it was the first day. The chicks look weird, with their soft scraggly feathers, too-large beaks and toes.

Freddie’s smile is bright when he looks up, tugging at Louis’ heart. “Look, dad. They remember me!”

“Of course they do, buddy. Let’s take a picture for your mum, then we’ve got to get you cleaned up, yeah? Got a plane to catch today.”

“I don’t want to get on an airplane. I want to stay here.”

“Come on, lad,” Louis wheedles. “You get to go home today, see your mum and all of your things.”

“I don’t want the chicks to miss me.” Freddie’s mouth starts to turn down, he’s a few moments from tears. If he starts, Louis might start; it’ll be a fucking mess of sniffling and wailing between the both of them.

Zayn’s there, all of a sudden, warm against Louis’ side. “Don’t worry, Freddie.” He smiles and takes out his phone. “I’ll send your dad loads of pictures, so you can watch them grow up. And he can send me pictures of you, so they won’t miss you as much.”

“And videos,” Freddie says.

“And videos,” Zayn agrees. “Maybe one day your dad will even let you keep a chicken in your yard.”

Arsehole. Louis shoots him the sharpest gaze he can manage while Kayla chokes back a laugh. Zayn just smirks and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

It’s amazing how fast thirty minutes can fritter away to five. Then it’s go time, for real. Freddie’s got his shoes on the proper feet and Zayn’s grabbing Louis’ case and hauling it out the front door. Everything’s in fast motion.

Freddie hates goodbyes. Louis can respect that, he’s not such a big fan of them himself. He tries to get Freddie to do anything, say goodbye, give a high-five, but he refuses, mute and mulish while Louis buckles him into his booster seat.

Kayla’s already in the car, fiddling with the radio as they say their own goodbyes. It’s not enough privacy and just the right amount, all at once.

Louis stands in front of Zayn and opens his mouth, and closes it. He’s no better than Freddie, and there’s nothing he can say right now that seems like the right thing.

Zayn lifts his arms and Louis pulls him in, squeezes him so tight that his thinks he hears a rib complain. “Call me soon, yeah?” he murmurs into Zayn’s neck.

“Of course I’ll call you. Answer the phone.” Zayn pulls back and keeps talking, pitching his voice low. “Thanks for coming.” Zayn winks and it’s fine, Louis is fine. Heat rushes to his face and all but clears the tears out of his throat.

“Okay.” He makes his way to the passenger door and jumps into his seat, doing up the belt quick, before he can overthink it.

Freddie rolls down the window, sticks his hand out for Zayn to high-five. “Bye bye,” he says. “See you on the flip side.”

He hears Zayn laugh and say goodbye, then there’s the crunch of tires against the gravel, a little cloud of dust, and they’re off.

The drive to the airport is like watching a movie in reverse. The landscape is just as lovely as he remembers but seems smaller now than it did a few days ago, while the farm dwindling behind them seems huge, a big neon sign casting its glow through the countryside.

Freddie’s talkative today, a constant stream of chatter in the airport, on the airplane. Some days it drives Louis proper crazy, the endless talking. Today it’s good - necessary, even.

They end up sat by middle-aged women again, and they make a big deal of Freddie, and Louis is so grateful that he buys them all little bottles of Champaign. Freddie falls asleep partway through the in-flight movie, slumped against Louis’ arm like a pint-sized furnace.

Louis isn’t so lucky. He tries to sleep but he can’t, scenes from the last few days replaying in his mind. He tries to start picking it apart, what happened between him and Zayn, but it’s like a story without a proper beginning. If you can’t figure out the start, how can you predict what’s going to happen next? He’s a mess.

He goes through the few photos he took, though his phone battery’s running low. There’s nothing in there that helps him put a name on it, what he’s feeling right now; he should have taken more pictures. Stomach in knots, he puts his phone away. Then he’s got nothing to do but stare out the window and listen to the sound of Freddie breathing, watch the gridlines of America unspooling thousands of feet below. A steady string of farms, tidy, tiny.

How many flocks of chicks are down there, growing into their adult feathers? How many other people - making amends, falling in love, fucking it up? The window’s cold against his forehead; he blinks enough to clear the wetness from his eyes.

Bria meets them just outside the gate to pick up Freddie, with a small group of non-descript security. Back in a real city, the less time Louis spends with Freddie in public places, the better. It fucking sucks, sometimes. Maybe in a few years, people won’t care as much.

Louis kneels down before she whisks Freddie away. “See you in a few days, okay?”

Louis’ only going to be gone two weeks on this leg, but he misses Freddie already. He squeezes him tight while Freddie wriggles in his grasp; now that he’s seen his mum, he’s impatient to be home.

“Bye, Dad,” Freddie says. He waves, making a weird face.

“Call me later,” Briana says. Louis has just enough time to nod, and then they’re off, getting smaller as they go, until they’re swallowed up in a crowd of people, and he can’t see them anymore.

One they’re gone, Louis has a minute to himself - though he’s got to get a move on as well, if he doesn’t want to be spotted in this madness. He called Oli off, so no one else is waiting for him at the moment. It’s probably for the best. Out of the plane, he can breathe properly, even if it’s recycled metallic airport air. And since he can breathe again, he can think again, and there’s something he needs to do, clear as day now that he’s standing on his feet. He checks his phone - the battery’s almost dead, but he’ll have plenty of time to charge it. He’s got time, anyway - it’s on his side, even, though it waits for no man. He’s losing it.

Instead of heading down to baggage claim, he goes to ticketing. Concierge will get his case, make sure it ends up on the right flight. And if not, there’s nothing in there that can’t be replaced. The next flight leaves in an hour, so he can’t second-guess himself for too long. There’s just enough time to eat a disgusting sandwich, walk a few laps, ring Oli, ring Michelle.

“Change of plans, love,” he explains, while she splutters. “I’ll be there Sunday night, on schedule.”

Louis gets the low battery warning as he’s ringing off. His charger’s nowhere to be found in his backpack, and it’s the one item he’s meticulous about putting in the same spot, no matter where he is. In fact - in fact, he never packed it, did he? It’s still where he left it, in Zayn’s kitchen, plugged into the outlet by the coffee pot. There’s a lyric in there, somewhere, if he looks hard enough; something about things you need, things you leave behind. If the charger’s the worst of it, then he’s gotten off better than he thought.

His phone dies on his flight out. He never did stop at a kiosk to get a new one - he was too full of raw energy, too worried about getting papped. As it is, he’s a bad combination of nerves, too few cigarettes, and too much time on an airplane. He gets some sleep when the sun goes down, but it’s not enough. He wakes with gritty eyes and a crick in his neck and nothing to distract him from himself. It’s an hour before the plane lands in Philadelphia; by the time they disembark, he’s exhausted and out of emotion - all reserves run dry, like.

It’s late by the time Louis gets his rental, which Michelle put under his name - she did the best she could, but thankfully the overnight rental clerk doesn’t seem to recognize him at all - and even later by the time he makes it to the farmhouse. Louis unwinds himself from the car, slowly. His back is so knotted he’s afraid to even stretch it out, in case it decides to revolt completely. Now that he’s here, gravel under his feet, twelve hours - give or take - from when he left before, it’s hard to start moving. All his momentum was for getting here; now that he’s here, he’s not sure what happens next. The house lights are dark, as far as he can tell, and the front door is locked. He gets the key ‘round back where Zayn showed him and lets himself into the kitchen.

It’s dead quiet in the house, and not a little creepy. His charger’s in the kitchen just where he left it, snaked next to the coffee pot - that, more than anything, makes his heart race like mad. He plugs his phone in: check. Circuits the ground floor, just in case - no Zayn. Walks up the stairs, creaking hideously beneath his stuttering feet. He’s so fucking tired. He’s charged like a wire. He’s going to vom, is what he is.

Zayn’s sleeping, under the sheet like always, fan set on high in the window. The day’s heat still hangs in the room, but cool night air bursts in with each surge of the fan blades. The cold front’s finally come through.

And fuck these old houses, because Zayn’s bedroom floor is just as loud as the fucking stairs, wheezing horribly as soon as Louis is two steps in. Zayn stirs - of course, the one time he’s not too passed out to sleep through it.

“It’s me,” Louis murmurs, where he’s toeing off his shoes. “Go back to sleep.”

“Lou?” Zayn asks, sitting up on his elbows. “What’re you doing?”

“Coming to bed.” He undresses down to his shirt and pants, the rustle of fabric incredibly loud. Zayn watches, face lost in shadow, as Louis peels back the sheet and crawls in.

“Hey,” Zayn starts.

“Shhhh,” Louis says, scooting closer. Zayn curls into his side, puts his nose in Louis’ neck, and falls back asleep. Louis tries to hold on to it, put a name to whatever’s shaking through his veins, but he’s too tired. It’s good enough for now. He can finally relax; there’s nothing that can’t be figured out in the morning.

 

 

When he wakes up the first time, it’s still dark. His body hates him for what he’s been doing to it the past few days. He’s thirsty and wide awake and it’s nowhere close to morning. Zayn’s passed out, leg tangled between Louis’. He carefully works himself free, skirting the squeaky floorboards on his way down to the kitchen. Could make a ninja of him yet. In the kitchen, he pours a glass of water and drinks it all in one go. Top ten glasses of water of his life. The microwave clock reads three a.m.; in LA, he’d just be getting to bed, probably.

His phone’s fully charged when he makes his way over to check. He’s got approximately one million notifications, only three of which he cares about. Funny how that works.

There’s a text from Niall: **are u back ???** Niall will know soon enough that he’s not, in fact, back. No immediate need to deal with that.

There’s a text from Bria, who’s sent a picture of Freddie at bedtime, pillowed on his wall of stuffed animals. _Back home_ , she captioned it. And, _Call me later._

There’s also a shit ton of notifications from Zayn. Eyes burning on the bright screen, he thumbs opens the text string.

The first is a picture of Cool, standing by the fence, Rap nowhere in sight. **Cool’s a little lonely,** it’s captioned.

 **We miss you** is next, no picture attached.

Then, **Safe travels** , sent with a selfie: Zayn pouting in the front garden, porch in the background. There’s a dumb filter on it, Zayn’s edges are soft and blurry.

The rest are pictures, no captions required.

Him, the back of his head, drinking tea at the kitchen island this morning, the last morning. He recognizes the t-shirt - he’s still got it on.

Him and Freddie and the pizzeria, the moment Freddie crawled into his lap.

Louis and Freddie at the beach, dark silhouettes holding hands in the glittering shallow water.

Freddie touching Cool’s nose, perched on Louis’ hip.

Louis sitting on the bathroom floor, pouring water over Freddie in the bath.

Freddie eating his lunch out of a bowl on the floor, like a chick.

Freddie holding up his dirty hands, fingers full of worms.

Louis asleep on the sofa, some rainbow filter turning him wonky and colorful.

He sets the phone down on the counter, trying to catch his breath. Why can’t he breathe?

Back upstairs, Zayn’s spread out in the few minutes he’s been gone, moving into the pool of Louis’ heat like a drowning person. It makes his throat tight - but what doesn’t, anymore? He settles on the edge of the bed, not ready yet to get back in.

“You’re such a dickhead,” he starts, though Zayn’s asleep. “I believed you.” He reaches over to touch Zayn’s arm, runs his fingers down it. In the dark room, Zayn’s a map of skin and tattoo lines, cool to the touch under the fan’s persistent whir.

Zayn stirs and rolls over to face him. “What?” He blinks, scrubs at his face. “Lou. You’re really here. Thought I dreamt it.” His voice is slow and thick, sliding over Louis skin.

“Had to come back, didn’t I?” Louis says, perched as he is - on the edge of the bed, on the edge of something. His heart could build a luxury hotel, all the hammering it’s doing. He swallows. “Saw those pictures you sent, just now.”

“Oh.” Zayn’s still laying there, moonlight pooling in his collarbone; still beautiful, still watching him, still not saying anything. There are words stopped up in there, somewhere. Whatever dam Zayn’s built to keep them back - Louis never learned how to do that.

He brings his legs up to the bed and lays down, on top of the sheet. “Oh is right, you dramatic fucker.”

Zayn’s flattens his hand against Louis’ ribs, hot through the fabric of his shirt, and stares through the darkness into Louis’ face - and it messes Louis up, the terrible silence, split only by the furious hiccupping in his chest. He counts the beats: _one_ , _two_ , _three_ , pushing Zayn’s palm closer, so his fingers dig into the skin and muscle. When Louis gets to ten, he leans forward for a kiss, deep and slow. Zayn gives a little sigh, relaxing into him.

“Hi.” Louis pulls back.

“You’re here.” A smile ghosts over Zayn’s mouth.

He drags his lips over Zayn’s again. “You said that already.”

“I’m still processing.” He runs his fingers over Louis’ side, curls them into the soft spot on his hip. When he squeezes, the dull points of pain shoot all the way to Louis’ dick.

“You -” Zayn stops, shakes his head. He leans forward, presses their mouths together.

His mouth is hot and slick, devouring the sound that works its way out of Louis, devouring everything. He slides his tongue against Louis’ until his dick aches and his breath is coming fast and hard and he needs to move or else he’ll die, burned up, burned away.

“Slow down,” Louis says. He slips his hands to Zayn’s chest and scrapes his nail over a nipple. Zayn’s moan tastes like a secret feels; he’s grateful for the sound, falling onto him like rain. “Yeah?” Louis does it again, for the way Zayn arches into him, for the way his nostrils flair.

“God,” Zayn groans. “Just -”

Zayn snugs their hips together and starts rocking against him. It’s too fast, but it’s hard to stop sucking on Zayn’s neck, the skin soft like it’s made for Louis’ mouth.

He pulls himself away enough to tip Zayn over onto his back. Up on his knees, Louis peels the sheet down Zayn’s legs; Zayn kicks it off the rest of the way. He’s in just his pants, long and lean; he bites his lip and reaches for Louis’ dick.

Louis bats his hand away. “Let me,” Louis says, tracing a finger down the top of Zayn’s thigh, the crease of his leg.

Zayn’s hips jerk up. “I just. I want -”

“Tell me,” Louis says against the Zayn’s collarbone, the salty skin stretched thin there. “Wanna hear it. What you want.” He lifts his head and waits.

“This. You. I want - can you -” He surges up to pull Louis down again, bringing their mouths together.

Louis separates them long enough to climb on top, settling over Zayn’s hips. From here he can feel how hard Zayn is, snugged against his arse; he wants to rock down, so he does, slowly; takes his time to nip his way down Zayn’s neck.

“Come on,” Zayn says, trying to move.

Louis shakes his head, moves back. “Not yet. Took long enough to get here, gonna take me time.”

“Didn’t take you that long,” Zayn looks at the clock. “Just a couple of flights. So, if you could just hurry the fuck up - ah -”

Louis leans down to suck on his nipple. “Funny man. Not what I meant.”

“Shit, shit. Keep -”

Zayn’s hands are in his hair, and he’s squirming underneath, all slim hips and muscle, trying to get some friction, something to rub his dick against. Louis hovers high enough so he can’t, caging him in with his limbs. Zayn groans again, tightening his fingers in Louis’ hair, until it’s just this side of painful. Louis is so fucking hard already; if Zayn gets a hand on him, it’ll probably be over in a second.

“Jesus, Lou.” Zayn pants up at the ceiling. “I didn’t -” he cuts himself off again.

“Didn’t what?” He mumbles over Zayn’s bicep, moving his lips down the long line of his arm; the spot on the inside of his elbow that’s paler than the rest.

“Didn’t know, like. What you meant by it.” His voice is wrecked.

“Meant by what?” Louis moves down Zayn’s torso, tasting all the dips and shadows.

“Coming here. Letting me - last night. Yesterday. _Shit.”_ The muscles of Zayn’s stomach shake under his hand, under his mouth. Zayn keeps babbling, not making any sense, now. “It’s - I wanted it. Want it, I do - Louis -”

Louis hooks his fingers in Zayn’s pants. “Off?” he asks, looking up the line of Zayn’s body.

Zayn nods, gulping for air. “Off.” He lifts his hips slightly, enough for Louis to peel them down his legs.

Louis presses a kiss over his hip bone, runs his thumbs over the damp skin at the crease of Zayn’s thighs. His legs fall open, dick curving up over his stomach, thick and wet at the tip.

Louis sits back, takes his own shirt off. He needs a second. It’s a moment he wants to not forget: Zayn spread out under him, hands gripping the sheets, sucking air into his lungs like he’s not going to make it.

He bends down over Zayn’s hips. “Keep talking. What do you want?” Louis asks, mouth brushing Zayn’s dick as he talks. It’s a low move, he knows.

Zayn sounds breathy, words spilling out of him faster than he can gather them back up. “This. Whatever you’ll give me. Even if - _jesus_ \- even if you don’t mean it the same.” He reaches down, fingers scrabbling against Louis’ shoulder as he tries to pull him up.

Face to face, Zayn’s fully a wreck. Even in the dark of the room, Louis can see the flush spreading over his chest and neck; he’s got a damp spot on his stomach where Zayn’s rubbing against him, little pulses of his hips.

“How do you mean it?” Louis asks, feeling relentless, like he’s about to push them off a cliff.

“I mean it, like,” Zayn says, quiet and low. Doesn’t break eye contact, teaching out to touch the side of Louis’ face. “I mean it.”

Louis scrapes a breath past the heart lodged in his airway. “Yeah. All right.” He drops down for one more kiss; crawls his way back down Zayn’s body to get a hand on his knob. “As you were, then,” he manages.

Zayn’s actually trying to kill him, though. He takes Louis’ hand off his prick and guides it lower, past his balls, spreading his legs for good measure.

Louis’ throat goes dry. “Are you serious?”

“I want to,” Zayn says, direct as anything. “Have you ever?  You know -”

Louis nods. “A few times. Not.” He swallows, tracing his finger against the ridge of muscle. Zayn tenses and pushes into his hand the slightest bit. “Not a bloke. You?” It’s hard to get out a full sentence, the way the rest of his blood’s rushing between his legs.

“No. Just a finger, like. Once or twice. So, not the same.”

Louis trails his free hand up Zayn’s erection. “Not the same as my massive knob, you mean?” he asks.

Zayn flicks his shoulder. “Are you going to get the stuff, or not?”

“Fuck. Okay. This is mad, you know that, right?”

There’s nothing sexy about gathering sex materials, which doesn’t mean Louis doesn’t try - though he pours so much slick on his fingers, Zayn starts laughing.

“Ambitious.”

“Don’t mock me right now.” Louis taps Zayn’s knees to get back inside. Then he’s there, slippery fingertip pressing against Zayn’s rim and it’s real and scary and hot, all at once.

It takes him ages to open Zayn up, seems like. Louis can’t stop watching his face, the way his mouth drops open when Louis hits the right spot. “You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, turned on by the squelch of lube, Zayn’s tight heat around his fingers.

Zayn clamps his hand around Louis’ wrist. “I’m ready.”

Louis drags his fingers out, slow, wipes them on the sheet; gets the condom on, somehow. “How…how do you want -” Louis starts.

Zayn tugs him back on top. “Like this, it’s good.”

Louis settles back into him, nestling their hips together, lining himself up. “Hey,” he says. It’s suddenly important to say it, this thing thundering through him - say it now, before it can be excused away.

“God, can you just -” Zayn bucks his hips, impatient.

“Shut up,” Louis says, brushing the hair off Zayn’s forehead. His heart’s going to explode, but he needs to say it. “I just. What you said. I mean it, too, yeah? Always did, probably.”

Zayn inhales sharply and nods, and then he’s grabbing Louis’ cock and pressing it down and in.

Slow, slow. He’s got to be slow - but there’s too much working against him. Zayn’s fingers, digging into his biceps. The little noises he’s making, as Louis starts to move. The way his eyes widen when Louis shifts back and the angle changes, and something goes really right.

“Hang on,” Louis says, and grabs a pillow. His pillow; serves him right. “Budge up.”

Zayn lifts his hips; it feels crazy, with Louis still inside of him. He’s got enough wits left to shove the pillow under Zayn, before he can’t think anymore.

“Fuck,” Zayn breathes, gripping the sheets.

It’s too good. Louis keeps up a rhythm for a while, but he’s not going to last. His orgasm’s already creeping up on him, tightening his spine, making everything sharp. Watching Zayn, dick bouncing with Louis’ thrusts, isn’t helping.

“Not going to last,” Louis pants. “Might wanna - ”

Zayn grins up at him, wobbly and sweet. “Give you a show, yeah?” He gets a hand on himself, starts tugging off to the timing of Louis’ hips.

And shit, it moves him right to the edge, he’s got to hang on, hang on -

Then Zayn’s tightening around him and groaning, come leaking through his fingers, and Louis can’t hang on anymore; his orgasm’s ripping through him like the tide, pulling him over the edge.

 

When Louis wakes up the second time, it’s morning. Early, late - no one needs him for once, so it doesn’t matter. Zayn’s sleeping on his stomach, hair curled like a halo around his head, a terrible tangle from their shower, earlier.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Zayn mutters, eyes closed.

Fuck it. Neither one of them seems poised to dissolve without warning, waft out the window. He rolls over and goes back to sleep.

 

Louis must be living wrong. It’s the only explanation for why he’s standing on Zayn’s gravel drive for the second time in as many days, squeezing the life out of him before he’s got to climb into a car and drive away. 

Zayn pushes him back, enough to cup his jaw. “Gonna kiss you now,” he says, swiping his thumb over Louis’ bottom lip.

It’s the third time they’ve tried this, the goodbye kiss. It’s just not sticking.

“Do your worst,” Louis says, licking Zayn’s thumb.

Zayn’s worst is pretty good, turns out. Comprehensive, even. It’s half the problem; Louis has been pressed against the side of the car for a quarter hour, they’re both half-hard and have no time left to deal with it. His balls will be blue as the sky by the time he gets to the city.

“Not me neck,” Louis complains. Gasps and complains, to be honest. It’s a skill.

“Okay,” Zayn says, picking his face back up. He presses one last kiss to the corner of Louis’ mouth. “Can’t help it, though. I’m just - worried, like.” He swallows, suddenly vulnerable. “What happens when you go.”

Louis reaches out, threading their fingers together. It’s a fear he understands. “I know it,” he says, soft. “Can’t tell you not to worry, either. You would anyway, and…” he laughs, a little helplessly. “We fuck things up, sometimes.”

“But?” Zayn asks, squeezing his fingers.

Louis shrugs, best he can when they’re all wound together. “I’ll call you. I’ll see you soon. We’ll do better.”

“We’ll do better,” Zayn repeats, just like they practiced.

Then Louis is in the car, and the gravel’s crunching under the tires, and it feels both like his heart’s getting mulched by the rubber treads and also flying ahead of him, down the road, the smooth curves of the freeway warmed by sun, all at once. He turns the wheel, and the farm is gone.

 

It’s just past check-in when Louis makes it to the hotel. The room’s same as always. Bland gray walls, bland white bed, new carpet smell. He drops down on the duvet, and the smell of bleach wafts from the covers. It’s comforting, almost. He starts to stretch out - his back is definitely, truly fucked - and winces against the sting on his ribcage; also comforting, familiar.

“Shit.” He pulls his shirt up, evaluating the new ink. It’s healing well, not too scabbed, though keeping it clean might be a nightmare come Wednesday’s show. It’s itching, now that the air hits it, so he slaps it hard to stop the itch.

He should get up. Do something - do a shop, go to the gym - anything other than laze in his room, running his fingers over his ribs like a sop. Instead, he picks up his phone and takes a breath, fighting the dumb fucking smile trying to split his face.

 **I’m here** , he taps out. The smile escapes anyway, when the typing bubble appears right away.

 _You’re not ☹️_. Zayn uses the biggest frown for maximum pout, Louis knows.

 **Call u later** , Louis types back, then tosses his phone on the bed. He stretches slowly, carefully, all the way to the end of his toes.

The room’s got a balcony, at least, so he can sneak a smoke without anyone noticing. It’s a great idea; he’s full of those, lately.

 

 

 

 

[come say hi on tumblr :)](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/184641781178/ship-zouis-rating-e-words-33k-summary-theres)


End file.
